The Hideaway

by Lauren K. Denton

  “You scandalous woman! Sneaking around with the boss after hours.”

  “He’s not my boss. I hired him.”

  “Even better. Sneaking around with a hired hand. I love it.”

  “Allyn, I love you, but you’re making this sound dirty.”

  “Of course I am. I’m happy you’ve found someone. Now don’t screw it up. And before you get all testy, I just mean don’t let your head into the game too much. That’s when you start to back off. Let it go and see what happens.”

  “That’s my plan.” I could hear commotion in the background, so I hurried. “I’ve found some of Mags’s things in the house as I’ve been cleaning out.”

  “What kind—? Oh, hang on a sec.”

  I waited while Allyn answered a customer’s question. I could hear the soft hum of voices in the shop, the tinkling of Allyn’s music of the day coming from the speakers. Things were just fine, as he’d said.

  “I need to run,” he said when he picked up the phone. “Barb here is interested in the sofa.”

  “The sofa?” I asked. Over the winter, I’d refinished a Victorian-style sofa from the 1800s with curved walnut arms and a tufted back. It was in mint condition and the most expensive item in the shop.

  “That’s the one. I’ll let you know how it goes. But I do want to hear about Mags. We’ll talk soon.”

  With a click, he was gone. I put the phone down on the desk and sighed. My presence at Bits and Pieces wasn’t as necessary as I’d thought. Everything was running like clockwork even in my absence.

  32

  SARA

  JULY

  I’d just sat down on the front porch after dragging a trash can to the road when a car approached. The small blue sedan came to a stop in the middle of the driveway. I couldn’t see the driver’s face through the shadows of the trees overhead.

  The man who eased out of the car had a full head of thick white hair under a plaid cap, and he stretched each leg out in front of him as if relieving them of stiffness. I’d seen that same white hair and plaid cap in my rearview mirror when I drove away from Mags’s grave. When the man stepped away from his car and turned toward me, I knew. This was William.

  He shuffled to the bottom of the porch steps. I would have spoken first had my mouth—my brain—not been so empty of words. My heart thudded when he finally spoke.

  “My name is William Cartright. I’m looking for—well, I’m not sure what. Is this . . . are you . . . ?”

  “I’m Sara Jenkins. This is The Hideaway.”

  He nodded and looked up at the house. “I couldn’t forget this place,” he said, before turning to me again. “I was . . . I knew Mag—Margaret—Van Buren. It was a long time ago. I read her obituary in the newspaper. It took me a while to get up the nerve to come back here.” He ran a hand across his stubbly cheek.

  It was hard to speak over the lump in my throat, full of both affection and sadness. “I’m her granddaughter.” My voice broke, but he was so caught in his memory I wasn’t sure if he noticed. I swiped my finger under my eyes.

  He offered a small smile. “I thought you might be. You look a lot like she did. The paper said her one survivor was a granddaughter, but I didn’t think I’d have the luck to run into you. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but would you have a few minutes to talk to me?”

  I gestured to the rocking chair next to me, and William began the climb up the steps. When he settled into the chair, he took a breath and seemed to relax a little. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

  Even in his old age, it was obvious he had been handsome once. He had an angular jaw and chocolate-brown eyes framed by still-full lashes. I tried to imagine him with hair to his shoulders, as it had been in the photo of him at the cove. His hands—large, dotted in age spots, and mottled with purple veins—pulled at the zipper of his jacket. They were strong, useful hands.

  “Thank you for talking to me. You probably haven’t even heard my name.” William ran his hand over a small Band-Aid on his chin. A dot of blood showed through the bandage right in the center, as if he’d nicked himself shaving.

  “I have,” I said quietly. I didn’t know how much to tell, so I went with the truth. “I found a note you wrote to Mags.”

  He raised his eyebrows and gave a slow nod but didn’t speak.

  “It was in pieces in a box with some old photos and a few other things. I didn’t understand what it meant—I still don’t, really—but I’ve been piecing bits together. Mags’s best friend Dot still lives here. She’s told me what she knows.”

  I wasn’t ready to mention the biggest fact I’d discovered—that William was my grandfather. It was still outlandish to me, and I suspected it would be even more so to him if he didn’t know, and according to Dot, he didn’t.

  “Then maybe you can tell me a little of what I missed,” he said. “Again, if I’m not asking too much. I know she must have had a full life after I left—she has a granddaughter, after all.” He smiled. “So life must have treated her well. I don’t want to pry, but I’ve always been so curious . . .”

  “It’s okay. She lived here until the very end. She was always surrounded by friends. The ones who live here now lived with her for years. The house made her happy. I think she had a good life.”

  Despite the fact that you left her heartbroken and pregnant.

  I couldn’t argue the facts, but this gentle man didn’t seem like the kind of person who would have done that. I wanted answers but I didn’t know how to venture into those waters. Turns out I didn’t have to. William dove right in.

  “I came back a year or two after I moved out.” He took his cap off and placed it in his lap. “I saw her sitting at the table where I first spoke to her—a fussy little wrought-iron table Mrs. DeBerry left behind—and she was laughing. A man was swinging a little girl around in a circle in the grass. When he put her down, she ran and threw her arms around Maggie’s neck.”

  William paused. “I knew it had to be her husband, and the little girl was theirs. I couldn’t bring myself to barge in. Especially not when I saw the girl. I suppose that was your mom?”

  I nodded even though he didn’t have the story right. “Why did you leave?” The question tumbled out before I had a chance to censor myself. “The first time, I mean. Where did you go?”

  He shifted in his chair and recrossed his legs.

  “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  “Yes, you should have. I knew coming here that if I wanted answers about Maggie, I’d likely have to answer for what I did.” He slid his hands up and down the arms of the rocking chair. “Maggie’s father showed up at The Hideaway soon after she took over the house. I was looking for her when I overheard them on the back porch. Her dad was scolding her about staying here instead of being back home with her husband.” He stopped and looked at me. “Forgive me. I don’t know how much you know, and I don’t want to be the one to—Well, I don’t want to change your view of your grandmother.”

  “It’s all right. I know about you and Mags. Some of it, at least. I need to know the rest.”

  He nodded. “We fell for each other quickly. I knew what we were doing—all I had planned for us—was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. That is, until I heard her talking to her father. I realized then that he was right.”

  “And you just gave up? If you really loved each other, couldn’t you have made it work somehow?”

  “Not then, we couldn’t. I saw exactly what I was up against. Who was I to be carrying on with another man’s wife and trying to plan a future with her? Aside from the fact that what we were doing was wrong, I was nobody—I couldn’t pay to put gas in my truck half the time, and her husband was a wealthy socialite with a steady job. Maggie was used to nice things, even if she had turned her back on her old life. I wasn’t sure she’d really thought of what it would mean to stick with me and turn down a life of money and ease. I knew I had to get myself together and make a real plan before expecting her to stick with me.”
>
  I thought of Mags sitting on her bench crying to Dot, missing William. I shook my head. “Knowing Mags and who she turned out to be, she probably wouldn’t have cared about the money.”

  “You have no idea how many nights I’ve laid awake thinking that same thing. I made a mistake leaving like I did, but I always planned to come back for her. I thought I’d spend some time away, make a decent amount of money, and then return to whisk her away like a knight in shining armor.” He chuckled.

  “What happened?”

  “I came back a few weeks after I left. I’d wanted to give her time to settle things with her parents and her husband, but it was so hard for me to stay away. I stopped at Grimmerson’s first to pick up some flowers. I’d made some furniture for Tom, and he knew Maggie and I were—well, together. He sold me the flowers but advised against taking them to her. He told me her husband had moved in. I didn’t go see her that day, but I was just young and headstrong enough not to give up.” He shook his head.

  “I did stay away for a while then. I worked hard, made some money, and I came back again, but I guess I waited too long. When I saw them in the backyard, I didn’t have the nerve to wreck what she’d built with Robert and their little girl.”

  My heart caved inside of me. I closed my eyes and worked the tension out of my forehead with my fingers. I wanted to tell him the truth about that little girl, my mother, but I couldn’t. Not yet.

  “I didn’t see any mention of Robert in her obituary,” he continued. “Did he . . . did they stay together?”

  “He died of a heart attack when Mom was just a few years old. But I don’t think . . .” I paused, unsure of how much to explain. “I think their situation was complicated.”

  “I see,” he said quietly.

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  He shrugged. “I just worried about her, is all. He’d already left her once.”

  “Seems a lot of people left her. The only ones who stuck by her are the ones who still live here.”

  “So she never remarried?”

  “There was never anyone else.”

  We rocked in silence for a few moments. “What about you?” I asked. “Did you ever get married?”

  He nodded. “Twice.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “I tried to forget her, but no one could ever measure up. In their defense, they were good women. Both times, it was my fault it didn’t work out. I compared everyone to Maggie. I was twenty-eight when she arrived here with a red coat draped over her arm. She was stunning. I’ve been in love with her ever since.”

  In the photo of Mags at the funeral, and the other one I’d found in the desk, she’d had such a radiant smile. Her hair was messy and free, and even the sand and sky around her seemed ripe with life. William had been the man to make her so happy. He’d been her heart and soul. Regardless of how he and Mags had ended, I felt a sudden closeness to him, an appreciation that he’d drawn so much life and joy out of her, even if I never got to see that side of her.

  “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” He straightened in his chair. “I appreciate you talking to me.”

  “I’m glad you came.” I wanted to say more, but it was still a little strange to be sitting next to my grandfather—one, he wasn’t named Robert, and two, he wasn’t dead. But despite the oddity of the situation, we had an undeniable connection and I wanted to know more about him.

  He rose from his chair and began the walk back to his car.

  I stood and walked to the top of the steps. “Would you mind if I called you? Maybe we could meet again.”

  He smiled. “I’d like that.”

  I put a hand on the door behind me. “I’m going to get some paper and a pen. Don’t go anywhere.”

  He chuckled and stopped on the bottom porch step. “Don’t worry. I’ll stick around this time.”

  I sat in the rocker watching the taillights on William’s car disappear in the trees. Not a minute later, the front door opened and Dot’s gray head popped out. “Is your friend gone?”

  “He is. Although he wasn’t a friend.”

  “Well, I wondered.” She sat in the chair William had just vacated. “I didn’t take you for a woman with gentleman callers as old as Bert.”

  “Aren’t you and Bert the same age?”

  She waved the thought away. “Don’t tell him that. So who was the visitor?”

  “It was William.”

  Her rocking chair creaked to a stop. “William?”

  I nodded. “He saw the obituary in the paper. Remember me telling you I saw a man at the cemetery after everyone else left? That was him.”

  “The thought crossed my mind, but it seemed unlikely. It’s been so many years.”

  We rocked in our chairs, each lost in our own thoughts. Around us, crickets practiced for their evening serenade, stretching their legs and testing instruments.

  “What was he like?” she asked.

  “Amazingly, still lovestruck. He’s been married twice, but he’s still in love with her—or at least, who she used to be. It was sad to hear him talk that way about her, especially since she’s not here to see him again. Do you think she still loved him at the end?”

  She shrugged. “On the one hand, Mags was a smart woman—I’d like to think she wouldn’t have let her heart stay tied to a man she met in her early twenties, but the head and the heart rarely agree. A woman never fully forgets her first love. And I’d imagine that’s especially true if she never finds love again—not to mention if she carried his child. I know she loved him, but I always had a hard time swallowing the fact that he left and never came back.”

  I told her about William overhearing Mags’s conversation with her father and how he planned to come back with the means to compete against Robert’s wealth and status.

  “Then why didn’t he? Mags would have gone back to him in a heartbeat—especially after Robert died.”

  “That’s the thing—he did come back, but he saw Mags and Robert in the backyard with a little girl—Mom—and he assumed it was Robert’s and her child. He didn’t want to disrupt their life or hurt the child.”

  “My goodness.”

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it? It would have been so easy for them to be together again, but neither of them knew.” I sighed. “I wish Mags hadn’t held on to her secrets for so long. I wish I had known all of this.” I cradled my chin in my hand. “I wish I had known her.”

  33

  SARA

  JULY

  At the house, the construction team took out the wall dividing the kitchen and dining room and the one between the foyer and the main parlor. Even with everything covered in dust and plastic tarps, I could tell the decision to remove the walls was a good one. Despite the noise and dust, it was easier to breathe in the house with the rooms opened up.

  The new bathrooms upstairs were framed out, and the old ones were updated to include spa baths and separate showers. Major was the biggest fan of the new bathrooms.

  “Have you seen those bathtubs?” he asked Bert one morning over cowboy coffee on the back porch when the electricity had been temporarily turned off. “They’re huge. I’m not too keen on men soaking in tubs, but these may change my mind.”

  Downstairs, the kitchen floors went from yellowed tile to hardwood and the counters from ugly linoleum to butcher block. I walked in the kitchen one day to find Bert leaning over the new counter, his ear an inch from the wood and his eyes closed. Major stood in the corner of the kitchen, just out of Bert’s line of sight, doubled over in quiet laughter. I gave Major a stern look and walked over to Bert.

  “Bert?” I whispered. “Are you okay?”

  He straightened up and smoothed his hand across the surface. “I’m just fine. And Major, I see you over there laughing. I read that some butcher block comes from ancient trees, and if you listen hard enough, you can hear the sound of wind in the branches.”

  Major couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Ancient trees? Wind in the branches? D
id you forget to take your pills this morning?” He laughed and grabbed a dish towel off the counter to wipe his eyes under his glasses.

  “I’m not crazy,” Bert said. “You know how you can hear the ocean in a seashell? It’s the same thing.”

  “I do know about the seashells,” I said, hiding my own laughter. “And you may be right about some butcher-block wood, but I ordered these from Ikea, so I don’t think they’re ancient. More like Swedish.”

  “Sweden? I bet they have ancient trees there.”

  I chose creamy white paint for the cabinets and a soothing pale gray for the walls throughout the rest of the house. It would make the spaces feel even larger and pop against the new white crown moldings. Everything was coming together just as I’d imagined. My favorite change was in the center hallway, which had previously been lined with built-in bookshelves, making it seem slimmer than it was. I asked Crawford to rip them out, and what a change it made. The hallway was now ten feet across, and when I opened the front and back porch doors, the breeze floated through the house like a cool whisper.

  I ended each day a hot, sweaty mess, but I was satisfied. Exhausted and bleary, but satisfied. It was early evening on such a day when a car pulled up in the driveway. I smiled. Crawford was coming over for dinner, and he must have decided to come early. The last of the workers would be out of the house soon, and he’d said we needed to celebrate my victory.

  “Victory?” I said when he asked me about dinner.

  “The house is incredible. I may have coordinated the actual work, but it’s all your plans. You made this house what it’s becoming. Your phone is going to be ringing off the hook with people wanting to book their vacations when it’s finished.”

  “What vacations?” I asked. “No one even knows about this place anymore, other than the neighbors who probably don’t care.”

  “You know how word spreads. Once it gets out that there’s a fancy new bed-and-breakfast in Sweet Bay, they’ll start coming. You haven’t said it, but I think this is what you want. Otherwise, why go through with the renovations?”