Robert sat beside me and said, “What a great day. Jenny’s happy, you seem to be happy—at least you have a smile on your face. I’m happy as a lark. See, we can make this work.”
I looked over at Jenny. With her blonde hair and small round nose, she looked so much like William. I closed my eyes and pretended he was there.
25
MAGS
JANUARY 1963
I reread William’s letter trying to find something I’d missed. He said he’d come back for me, but I didn’t know how to reach him to tell him I was ready. Lord, I’d been ready since the day Robert arrived, since I discovered just how wrong it felt to share a house with a man I didn’t love, regardless of any sense of duty or obligation. But life didn’t slow down for my wounded heart, and our big, strange family at The Hideaway—cobbled together by circumstances, accidents, and varying degrees of luck—charged ahead.
Robert needed care, as Daddy had said, but not all the time. I didn’t know exactly what was wrong with him, but he’d have these nightmares. I never knew when they would strike. He’d wake up screaming, sweating, and rolling in his bed, but I was never able to calm him down. It’d take a while before he was fully awake enough to hear me telling him it was just a dream. When the nightmares came, he usually spent the next day in bed. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t shower, and definitely wouldn’t talk about it.
The following day, he’d hop out of bed as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. If I asked about it, he’d respond with “What do you mean?” or “I just didn’t feel well. No big deal.” Bert, who’d fought in France, said it was common to most soldiers who’d seen time in battle.
The episodes were scary but infrequent, and I soon realized Daddy had exaggerated Robert’s sickness. Sure, it helped to have someone around to look after him when the nightmares came, but he was far from death’s door. When I mentioned to Robert what Daddy had said about the severity of his illness, he laughed.
“He did what was necessary to make sure you stuck around. I can’t say I blame him. If Jenny ever ran off with some kid who wouldn’t amount to anything, I’d do whatever it took to set her on the right path too.”
It was the first time Robert had referred to William. A kid who wouldn’t amount to anything? I stood up so fast the chair behind me fell back with a clatter, and I left the room.
Around the others Robert and I were mostly amicable, but I was simmering on the inside. I resented the way Daddy had manipulated me into taking Robert back, and I resented Robert’s presence in my life when I thought I was done with him for good. All this had pulled me from William, so I fought back in whatever ways I could.
The house had never been perfect—not even when Mrs. DeBerry was in charge—but now I saw the imperfections as badges of honor instead of problems to fix. I was done with trying to make everything look flawless just for the sake of appearances. The house was warm and comfortable, if not magazine-ready, but no one living there really cared about that anyway. I loved that the place was a little off-kilter, and the quirkiness only solidified its charm.
I hoped the same was true for me when I spied a bird’s-nest hat in the front window of Irene’s Dress Barn on Main Street while shopping with Dot. I bought it and it became my favorite accessory.
My new eccentricities bothered Robert, especially since I’d been neat and organized before, but he knew better than to speak of me or the house like he owned either of us. He wisely took it as a trade for me allowing him to live in the house. This allowed him to keep up appearances to his friends, who thought it terribly romantic that he and his wife ran a bed-and-breakfast in Sweet Bay. He never bothered to give them the correct facts, and for some reason, I let him keep that bit of his pride intact. Anyway, I didn’t care what his friends thought of him, or us.
26
SARA
JUNE
I was taking framed photos and prints off the walls and stacking them in a back bedroom for safekeeping when Allyn called. I’d been meaning to call him for days, but something—or someone—interrupted me every time I sat down to do it.
“I see how it is,” he said when I picked up the phone. “You get back to your roots and forget all about me.”
“That’s not it, and you know it.”
I was out of breath from carrying too large a load with the phone sandwiched between my shoulder and my ear, so I paused and sat on an ancient couch. This one had escaped a fatal trip to Goodwill because of its clean lines and still-firm cushions.
“So what’s going on?” he asked as I stretched my sore neck muscles. “Are you becoming a permanent Sweet Bay-ite?”
I laughed. “That’s not how you say it.”
“Well, what is it then?”
“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not becoming a permanent Sweet Bay anything. It’s just a big job and it’s taking a while. You were the one who said I needed to relax and dive in.”
“I know, and I’m glad you are. Things are just fine here, thanks for asking.”
I smiled. “Tell me—how are things going with you and the shop?”
“Everything is still in one piece, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s not.”
“I know, I’m just kidding. Everything is good. We had a busy weekend—oh, we sold the grandfather clock.”
“Really? I wasn’t sure that thing would ever find a home.”
“Whatever. You find perfect homes for even the strangest little trinkets. Anyway, a man came in Saturday looking for something for his study. I showed him the clock and told him it would make him look professorial.”
“Professorial?” I asked.
“I don’t know where it came from, but apparently it was the right thing to say. He took it home that afternoon.”
I laughed. Allyn could sell the shirt off someone’s back and make him glad to see it go.
“Now tell me what’s going on with you,” he said. “I know something’s up. The last time we talked, you drilled me with questions about every item in the shop, and now you’ve hardly asked a thing. Spill it.”
“It’s funny you should ask. I’ve . . . well, I’ve sort of met someone.” I held my breath, waiting for his reaction.
“I knew it!”
“You—what?”
“I just had a feeling you’d get down there and meet someone. You’re away from your rigid schedule and routines, you have time on your hands—it’s the perfect situation. And it’s the only reason I can think of that would make you loosen up and actually trust me with your shop. Now you just have to convince him to come back to New Orleans with you.”
“Hold on, we’re not that far along. We’ve only been out a few times.”
“I’m glad for you,” he said. “You need something like this. What’s his name?”
“Crawford.”
“Hmm. Sounds sexy.”
“I’d hit you if you were sitting here next to me.”
“I know. That’s why I said it—because I’m over here and you can’t do one thing about it.”
The bell on the doorknob in Bits and Pieces jangled in the background.
“I need to run. Gotta go make some money for my absent boss.”
“You sure do,” I said, ignoring the drop in my stomach at the thought of life at Bits and Pieces carrying on without me. “Thanks for calling. I’m glad to hear your voice.”
“Have fun with Crawford. Call me soon and give me more details. Or better yet, maybe I’ll pop over there for a visit soon.”
We hung up and I stared at the dark screen before dropping the phone on the couch. I tried to keep my mind from drifting to all I was missing at the shop as I scanned the wall across from me. Several small prints still hung on the wall along with a huge map framed in wood trim with no glass. I stood and walked over to take them down and place them with the others, but the map was too big for me to carry. Closer up, I could see it showed the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay from Fort Morgan all the way up to the Tensaw River Delta.
I scanned the shoreline, taking in the familiar towns, rivers, and bays. My eye stopped at a tiny hole pricked into the map, just south of Sweet Bay. Probably from a thumbtack.
But something else was there. A small hand-drawn arrow pointed at the little hole. I quickly scanned the rest of the map for other holes or marks, but it was clear.
The map showed no specific town or park at the marked spot, just a stretch of green along the shore where Sweet Bay met Mobile Bay. I tried to visualize that area but came up blank. The restaurant where Crawford had taken me on our first date was near there—we must have passed right by that point, but nothing stuck out in my mind as particularly noteworthy.
But it must have been important to someone.
It could be nothing—just a piece of real estate someone was interested in at one time or maybe a prime fishing location.
I chewed on the end of a fingernail and stared at the map.
Since finding the box in the attic and learning about Mags’s previous life of privilege, I was curious about her in a way I had never been before. It seemed like everything I found in the house was part of the mystery of Mags. I’d always taken for granted that she was exactly who she appeared to be and nothing more, but I was beginning to see there had been much more to her beneath the surface.
I headed toward the kitchen to find someone who might be able to help. Dot and Glory were out for the afternoon, but I thought Bert or Major might be around somewhere. A quick trip through the first floor and a call up the stairs from the landing proved me wrong. The only other person in the house was a man kneeling on the floor in the upstairs hallway, patching a spot on the wall with Spackle and singing along with the radio.
Then the front door opened and Crawford breezed in, a binder of paint chips under his arm and his cell pressed to his ear. I hadn’t realized how dusty and quiet the air in the house was until the open door ushered in a wave of fresh air tinged with the smell of new blossoms and freshly cut wood.
I stopped where I was on the bottom step and smiled. He finished his phone call and looked up at me, returning my smile.
“You look happy,” he said.
“It’s a good day.” I motioned for him to follow me, then showed him into the room where I’d found the map. “What do you make of this?”
He stepped closer and squinted. “It’s a map of Mobile Bay and Baldwin County. Why?”
“No, not the map itself. Look at this little hole.” I pointed to the spot marked by the arrow. “What do you think that is?”
“Hmm. Sure looks like someone wanted to remember this place.” He scratched at the faint stubble on his chin. “I think I may know where this is. I could take you there sometime if you want.”
I looked at my wrist, but I hadn’t worn my watch in weeks. “You couldn’t—you don’t have time to take a drive now, do you?”
“With you? Absolutely. Let me just drop this stuff off in the kitchen.”
A few minutes later, I walked with him toward his truck, then stopped. “Wait, don’t we need to bring the map? I may be able to get it out of the frame.”
He chuckled. “Don’t worry about the map. I can find my way there.”
All I knew was the spot was just south of where the two bays met, but Crawford seemed to know exactly where to go.
“I know most of the landowners around the mouth of Sweet Bay, but I’ve always wondered about this one stretch of empty land. It’s not marked from the road, just a long, twisting driveway like all the others.” He peered through the trees on either side of the road as we drove.
He’d taken my hand as we pulled away from the house, and it was still wrapped in his. His hand was sturdy and warm, and I liked the sensation that our hands fit together like two paired objects that had found their way back together again.
“It’s hard to believe there’s still undeveloped land around here,” he said. “Most people wouldn’t dream of letting a coveted piece of property by the bay sit empty, you know?” He slowed as he approached a dirt road leading toward the water. “I think this is it.”
We went around one bend, then another. Finally, the tree-covered dirt path, just wide enough to accommodate Crawford’s truck, opened up into an inlet of some sort, protected on three sides by craggy old oak trees. Spanish moss draped across low-hanging limbs.
The place was more than undeveloped—nothing marred the mix of sand and grass except a pair of seagulls picking through a clump of wet seagrass next to the shoreline. The sun shone overhead and reflected off the water, a brilliant prism. I pulled my sunglasses down from the top of my head.
Crawford parked the truck along the path and we stepped out into the soft sand. I tossed my sandals on the floorboard before I closed the door.
“I can’t believe no one has built here,” he said as we picked our way through the prickly grass and then sand to the water’s edge. “It’s gorgeous. I don’t know anywhere else around here that’s so private and tucked away like this. The owners probably field offers left and right from people wanting to buy.”
“If they haven’t wanted to build, I wonder why they haven’t given in and sold it. They’d make a fortune.”
“Who knows? Maybe some things are still more important than money.” He turned and walked back toward his truck. “Maybe they’re hanging on to it for a reason,” he called over his shoulder.
He opened the passenger side door and pulled out a drop cloth from behind the seat. Back on the sand, he spread it out next to me as a makeshift blanket.
“So what’s the deal with the map?” he asked. “Was this the first time you’d seen it?”
I shook my head. “I vaguely remember seeing it on the wall when I lived at the house, but I never paid much attention. I was taking pictures down earlier today when I noticed the little hole and the arrow.”
“If this is the right place, it makes sense someone would want to remember it. It could be a great private retreat. And it’s off the main roads—you have to know where you’re going to get here.”
I ran my fingers through the sand next to me. If this even was the right place, had Mags been the one to mark the location on the map? So many other people had come through The Hideaway’s doors over the years, that map could have belonged to anyone. But the place where it hung—centered on the wall and directly across the room from the couch—made me think she put it there so she could keep an eye on it, like a tiny speck on a map could get up and walk out of her life.
As if reading my mind, Crawford asked, “Do you think this has anything to do with your grandmother?”
I inhaled and blew the air out slowly. Maybe I was reminiscing about things so long forgotten they didn’t even matter anymore. Mags was gone, and whoever else knew anything about this stretch along the bay was probably long gone too.
“I don’t know. I’m wondering if this place played a role in her life before I was born. Maybe even before my mom was born. I feel like I’m trying to put a puzzle together without all the pieces.”
“Isn’t that always the case? Especially with grandparents,” he said.
“Maybe so.”
“We tend to know a lot about our parents’ lives, but our grandparents? The big events of their lives happened long before we were born. By the time we’re old enough to be curious about what made them who they are, they’re old and forgetful. Or not even around anymore.”
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
“My grandfather died when I was ten. I was sad when he died, but the sadness passed, as everything does when you’re that young. It wasn’t until much later, after college even, that I began to wonder more about his early life. But by then, I’d long missed any chance to ask questions.”
“That sounds about right.” I thought of the ring and jumbled note from the mystery William. One part of it stuck out to me more than the rest—something about a choice. And that it was the right one. It was similar to the postcard from Mags’s mother, which I still knew nothing about. I wanted to kn
ow what the stakes had been. What effect did this choice have on Mags’s life? Her mother and William were of the opinion that it was the right choice. Did Mags think so?
And why couldn’t I have found these bits of information while Mags was still alive? But I knew the answer. Everything I needed to know—including Mags—had been right in front of me my whole life. I just never chose to look.
“I think Mags may have dealt with a lot more in her life than I ever gave her credit for. I always knew she was self-sufficient and determined, but I never gave much thought to what made her that way. The kicker is I had almost thirty years to ask questions, and now, like you said, I’ve missed my chance.”
“Maybe just the fact that you’re here matters, that you’re even trying to figure some things out. Not everyone would care. Most people would sell the big house they’d just inherited, make some money, and get back to real life.”
I shifted my legs. My “real” life in New Orleans had beckoned so loudly when I first arrived in Sweet Bay. It had been a siren call until I met Crawford. And Mags.
“But you’re still here,” he continued. “I bet that wouldn’t be a small thing to your grandmother. It’s definitely not a small thing to me.” He tucked my hair behind my ear and traced my cheek and jaw with the back of his fingers. “This thing with us has . . . well, it’s caught me by surprise.” He laughed a little. “I wasn’t expecting someone like you to show up in my life.”
“Someone like me?” I smiled. “I can’t tell if that’s good or bad.”
“It’s good. I know you have a life—not to mention a business—to get back to, but for some reason, I’m not worried about that. Am I crazy, or do you feel the same way?”
“You’re not crazy.” We sat near enough that his leg pressed against mine. His warm breath was so close and the wall around me was falling down, brick by brick.
He traced long strokes down my arms with his fingers, and my skin prickled in response. When his lips met mine, something inside me landed. I hadn’t been aware that part of me hung loose and disconnected, but now it slipped into place, anchored and safe. The heat that started in my belly flooded my brain and escaped into the air, becoming part of the water, the sky, and the sunshine.
The Hideaway Page 16
