All I had left of him were the few things he made for me during our short time together—the pieces of furniture, the bench in the garden, the tiny replica of the house—the one that should have been ours, built into a quiet cove on the bay, undiscovered by anyone but us. But life doesn’t always work out the way it’s supposed to, does it?
41
SARA
AUGUST
I called William at the number he gave me, and we made plans to see each other the next day. He said he’d make a day of it and visit some friends from his days at The Hideaway, Gary and Starla.
“Starla?” I asked.
“She gave herself that name back when she wore all black and smoked twenty cigarettes a day. It’s a miracle she’s still alive. I think her real name is Betty.”
When he arrived in town, I directed him to The Outrigger for lunch, where we found a table on the deck overlooking the water. I wanted to tell him about the possible fate of the house—not to mention our family connection—but I was nervous about his reaction to both. To stall, I told him about leaving Sweet Bay, landing in New Orleans, and opening Bits and Pieces.
“But couldn’t you have opened your shop here? I’ve dreamed about Sweet Bay since I left fifty-some years ago. It’s a special place, you know. And the house—it has a pull.”
“I get it now,” I said. “I think my time away finally showed me that. But after living with Mags for a decade, I guess I needed a break. Back then, she was a little odd.”
“What do you mean, odd? Maggie was many things, but I wouldn’t describe her as odd.”
“I think it happened after you left. I understand more now, but as a clueless teenager, I just wanted out. And in coming back, I’m finding pieces of her life that I never knew existed.”
He smiled, but it was halfhearted. “If it took her passing on for you to come back to your home and understand more of who she was—and who you are . . . well, maybe something good can come from something so sad.”
I shrugged. “Maybe so.”
Bubble gum snapped as someone approached behind us. “Y’all ready to order something?” the waitress asked without looking at us. I recognized her as the same waitress from my dinner here with Allyn.
William glanced over the menu and ordered a fish sandwich. I chose the grilled shrimp salad, and we both ordered sweet tea.
“You sure you don’t want a glass of wine? Or three?” the waitress asked. I looked up at her and she winked.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“I’ll have that out to you in a few.” She snapped her gum as she wrote our orders on her little notebook and walked away.
I took a deep breath. “I left something out the last time we talked. I wasn’t ready to tell you then, but I don’t think I can keep it in any longer.”
“Then you’d better tell me.”
“That little girl you saw the day you came back to The Hideaway?” William nodded and I swallowed hard. “You’re right that she was my mother. But she was not Robert’s daughter.”
William’s brow creased between his eyes.
“Mags and Robert never shared a bedroom once he moved in,” I said, making my point clear.
“Then who . . . ?” He turned his eyes to the water and clenched his jaw. “She . . . that little girl wasn’t mine, was she?”
I nodded.
His mouth opened and closed, then he shook his head as if shaking away a dream. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“In those last couple weeks before I left, something about Maggie was different.” William dragged his hand across his face. “She looked and sounded the same, but she felt different to me. I even wondered . . .” He shook his head again. “So all this time . . . and that day, behind the house wasn’t . . .” He exhaled, blowing the air out with force.
I looked away. Whatever his feelings were, they were private. When I glanced back at him, his head was down and he’d put his hand over his eyes. Finally, he sniffed and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is such a surprise. Where is she now? My—the little girl?”
I hated to deliver another blow. “Her name was Jenny. She and my father died in a car wreck almost twenty years ago.”
William took his cap off and held it in his hands, pulling at the edges with his fingers. This man had lived most of his life under a wrong presumption, and I’d just thrown open the shutters, letting in the light of truth. Should I have kept my mouth closed?
He turned back to me. “Up until I met Maggie, I’d lived much of my life without a family. My parents died young, like yours did. When I met her, I thought that would all change, that I’d finally be a part of something bigger than myself, but it wasn’t to be.” He shrugged. “Not then anyway.” He pulled the corner of his mouth up in a small smile as he wiped his eyes again. “This must be strange for you too. But I’m glad you’re here—does that make sense?”
“It does. I understand.”
The waitress brought our food and we ate mostly in silence. I began to dread the silent car ride back to the house, but then William began to talk about his life after he left Sweet Bay.
Despite the failed marriages, his life had been mostly good. When he left The Hideaway, he moved around for a while, finding odd jobs to support himself while he worked on his furniture.
“I was constantly on the road in my old truck, the bed filled up with planks and boards I pulled out of abandoned houses. I was always covered in sawdust. Still am, really.” He looked down at his hands and dusted them off on his pant leg, even though they were clean.
He found a few shops that agreed to carry his pieces, and business took off. After coming back and seeing Mags and Robert together, he settled in Still Pond, a small farming community an hour north of Mobile, and had been there ever since.
“It’s a nice town. I’ve had friends over the years, I have a church, people who look in on me. Most of the town eats at a dining table or sits on a bench I made for them or their parents or even grandparents. I know most everyone there. It’s been a good life,” he said, nodding. “Lonely at times, but a solid life.”
“Sounds a lot like mine.”
“You mean you don’t have a fellow down in New Orleans waiting on you?”
I shook my head. “Not in New Orleans.”
“Here?”
“For now, I suppose.”
“I don’t have much recent experience dealing with young people’s relationships, but I can listen. If you want.”
I wasn’t in the habit of talking much about my relationships. Allyn knew most of what was going on with me at any given time, but it had taken me a while to feel comfortable sharing my life with him. For some reason, I felt okay telling William about Crawford.
Talking about Crawford naturally led to talk of the house and how beautiful it was becoming. I rounded it out by giving him the blow-by-blow of Sammy’s plan.
“Sammy Grosvenor. The name rings a bell, but . . .” He shook his head. “Can he do it? Can he take the house?”
“I wish there was a way out, but Mags’s lawyer has gone over it and checked with the mayor’s office. Sammy has had his eye on the property for a long time, so once he convinced the mayor the time was right, he jumped on it.”
William sighed. “All in the name of progress, I suppose.”
I nodded.
“So much life in that old house,” he said.
“Sammy used to come around The Hideaway every once in a while. He’d tell Mags he could set her up nicely for the rest of her days if she’d only sell. Every time, she’d practically chase him off the porch. I don’t think Sammy ever understood what kind of woman Mags was.”
William chuckled. “So she wasn’t interested in passing her time with shuffleboard and sudoku?”
“Not quite. The only time I ever saw her sit down and relax was when she went to the garden at night to sit on your bench. Otherwise, she spent her time working on something—the
boat motor, her vegetables, replacing a missing board on the dock.”
“Sounds a lot like me,” William said. “Keeping busy—making things with my hands—is the only way I know to live. It’s the only way for me to keep Maggie with me. Well, that and the keys.”
“The engravings,” I said slowly. “You made those.”
He nodded. “It’s my trademark. I’ve carved that key into everything I’ve made since I met her. But it’s more than my mark, it’s my inspiration—or more accurately, she’s my inspiration. She held the key to my heart back then, as well as now. As much as it meant to me though, I didn’t think she’d ever thought about it again. Seeing it carved into the marble on her headstone . . . Well, I wasn’t sure what to do with that. I guess that’s why I finally made myself come back and ask some questions. I sure am glad I found you.”
“I am too.”
We were both quiet a moment.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Of course.”
“Why do you call her Maggie?”
He smiled. “It seemed like she was making a fresh start in her life, so I gave her a new name to go with it. And you call her Mags?”
I nodded. “I guess somewhere along the way it was shortened.”
He sat back in his chair and crossed his hands over his middle. “So Sammy is taking the house.”
I looked out at the water but kept an eye on William.
“Memory is a powerful thing,” he said. “My memories of Maggie have kept me going all these years even though I hadn’t seen the house, much less her, in decades. But the house isn’t the keeper of memories for me. Mine are up here.” He tapped his forehead. “You’re different though. Losing the house will be a bigger blow for you, I imagine.”
A year ago—six months ago even—losing the house probably wouldn’t have even registered on my radar. But now? Everything about this new, unexpected chapter of my life was tied to the house in some way. Losing it felt like losing a part of my body I’d just learned how to use.
After lunch, William drove me home. We made no immediate plans to see each other again, but I wasn’t worried. We had a lifetime of absence to make up for. I hugged him before I left his car, and he patted my cheek.
That night, long after Dot and the others had gone to bed, I walked through the house, dark except for the light in the kitchen. In the downstairs hallway, I paused in front of Mags’s bedroom door. Dot and Glory had done a little cleaning out, taking bags of odds and ends to Goodwill and Sweet Bay United Methodist for their annual rummage sale. They told me they were leaving Mags’s clothes and personal belongings for me to go through.
I turned the knob and the door creaked open. I’d requested that Mags’s room be the last one to undergo renovation, so everything looked as it always had—single bed pushed up against one wall, a dresser along the opposite wall, chair and ottoman in one corner. Her vanity sat under the window that overlooked the backyard and the bay. I turned on a lamp and sat on the small stool in front of the mirror. A pot of Pond’s cold cream sat on top next to a tube of Jergens lotion, a couple prescription bottles, and an old, silverhandled hairbrush. I twisted the top off the Pond’s and inhaled. It was Mags’s scent. Granted, the scent was usually mixed with something else—dirt, brackish water, motor oil—but the Pond’s was always underneath.
The top drawer of the vanity held a variety of hairpins, travel-size shampoo bottles, a box of needles, and small spools of thread. In the middle of all these trivial items, a pearl necklace gleamed in the lamplight. I smiled. Most people would have wrapped something like this in tissue and protected it in a jewelry box, but not Mags. She just dropped it in with everything else.
The bottom drawer appeared to be empty, but when I pushed it closed, I heard something inside skid across the wood. I pulled the drawer back open and leaned down to peer in. Way at the back was an envelope. I reached in and pulled it out. My mother’s name was written on the front. I turned the envelope over—it was still sealed, never opened.
I moved my fingers over the envelope and felt a folded piece of paper inside. It wasn’t for me, but it had been for my mom, and for some reason, she’d never read it. Should I?
I slid my finger under the flap and opened the letter.
My dear Jenny,
As I write this, you are a lovable nine-year-old running around the beach with salty air in your face. The thought of telling you what I’m about to share on paper is unfathomable—that’s why I plan to give this to you when you’re much older. Hopefully by then you’ll be able to better understand the complexity of the human heart and how it can clutch both hope and pain in the same tight fist.
Up until now, you’ve been told that your father, Robert, died of a heart attack years ago when you were a toddler. It is true that a man named Robert Van Buren died when you were three, and of a heart attack, but this man was not your father . . .
When I finished the letter, I ran my fingers across my mom’s name on the front of the envelope. Then I wiped my cheeks and replaced the letter inside. It was late, and I was tired, but instead of going upstairs, I lay down on Mags’s bed. I slid the envelope under the pillow and closed my eyes.
42
SARA
AUGUST
Despite the signs and pleas from Sweet Bay, Sammy and Mayor McClain did not relent. The mayor sent a firm but apologetic note explaining that we would be compensated for the value of the house, which none of us cared about. Sammy showed up on the doorstep two days later with a court order in his hands.
“You have thirty days to vacate the premises. You don’t want to be here after that.”
He backed down the steps and walked to his car, but he stopped before he opened the door. “Miss Jenkins, this doesn’t have to be all that bad. You’ll get on back to New Orleans and go about your business. I’ll set things in motion here and move on to my next acquisition.” He opened his car door and sat down. “Life goes on.”
Later that evening, hours after Sammy had dropped off his court order like an unwanted fruitcake, the five of us sat in the living room together.
“I’m proud of you,” Dot said. “You turned this house into something magnificent, which is exactly what Mags wanted. You should be proud of yourself too.”
“What are you going to do?” I held a mug of Lady Grey tea, but it had long grown cold.
“We’re moving down to Florida,” she said. “We should have done it years ago. If you’d told me when I first moved in here that I’d outlive Mags and still be here at this age, I’d have told you to go jump in the bay. This place gave us a wonderful life, but everyone has to join the real world sometime . . .” She paused and shook the ice cubes in the bottom of her glass. “I suppose our time has come. Almost fifty years later.”
“Just like that?” I asked. “It’s such a quick change.”
Dot looked at Bert and he nodded. “It’s not so quick,” she said. “We’ve talked about it off and on for years, but just never put the plan in motion. But it’s time now. And we’re okay with it. Don’t worry about us.” I thought I heard a wobble in her voice, but her face remained calm, almost cheerful.
“What about you?” I searched Glory’s face for any indication of panic or sadness. If I’d seen even a hint, I’d have crumbled.
“Major and I have had our eye on some property back in Georgia for a while. It’s still on the market, so I think we’ll put up a nice little house and dig in roots. We may even try our hand at farming.”
“Farming?” Major laughed. “A trendy chicken coop is not a farm, my dear.”
“We’ll start there and see what happens.” Glory winked in my direction.
“Your turn,” Dot said. “What’s next for you? For a little while, we thought you might stick around here.” She glanced at Bert. “We weren’t sure at first, but it seemed like you and Crawford . . .”
“What she’s trying to say is it was nice to see some young love under the roof again,” Bert said. “And he
seems like a gentleman. Knows how to treat a lady. That goes far in my book.”
“I’m sure she can rest easy knowing she has your approval,” Dot said. “Crawford put a lot of work into this house. He must be devastated that it’s all going to be for naught. How is he handling everything?”
My mind went back to something he’d said in the dining room the day the newspaper article came out. We’d finished breakfast and he was about to leave.
“Most of the houses I work on are just jobs to me,” he’d said. “Occasionally I get asked to work on some great old house and it becomes more important, but when I finish the job, I move on to the next one without a hitch. This one was different from the start.”
“That’s probably because you had your eye on the owner before you even saw the house,” I said.
“I got lucky. I heard she almost went with Earl and his overalls.” He smiled. “The thing is, I’ve come to love the house too. When I first saw it, I loved that you weren’t taking the easy road and unloading it as quickly as possible, which probably would have put it right into the hands of someone like Sammy. Yet here we are staring demolition in the face.” He ran his hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in tufts, and leaned toward me, his elbows on his knees. “Regardless of the house, you come first. I can find another old house to fix up, but I don’t want to lose you.”
Dot looked at me, still waiting for an answer. Crawford was so kind and good. He’d probably never left anyone in the dust, as I had with Mags. He wouldn’t know how to do that. I shook my head and answered the question she hadn’t asked. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
In the last weeks, I spent as much time as I could soaking up the essence of the house and Mags—I walked down the long, curved driveway, watched the sunset from the dock, rocked on the porch, and sat in Mags’s bedroom. I wanted to pack up the memories and take them with me, even if only in my mind.
The Hideaway Page 24
