The Hideaway

“She’s not going to sell the thing, that’s for sure,” Major’s deep voice burst out. “It needs to stay in family hands.” He shot to his feet, his chair squeaking on the hardwood, and stomped to the other side of the room. So much for him cooling off in the car.

He stood at the window overlooking the driveway for a long moment before he turned back to us. When he did, most of the anger had drained from his face. “I know we don’t deserve the house. Blood’s thicker than water, and all that. But after living here so long and being with Mags every day, I’d say we’re a little more than just water. Now she’s gone and given our house to someone who only visits a couple times a year.” He lifted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He sighed. “I know it’s not our house, but it feels that way.”

“It does feel that way, but Sara grew up in this house,” Dot said. “It’s more hers than ours. Mags let us stay here so long out of the kindness of her heart—and because she loved us. But she’s not forcing us out. She wouldn’t have given the house to Sara if she didn’t trust Sara to make the best decision. I agree with her on this.”

Silence fell in the room as Major shuffled back to his chair and we all started eating. Forks clinked against plates and a breeze from the open window ruffled the curtains.

Dot looked at Bert and tilted her head toward the kitchen. Bert raised his eyebrows and nodded. “I’ll be right back.” A moment later, he returned carrying a bottle of wine and a tray of glasses. “Nothing like a little wine to loosen the lips and calm the nerves, right?”

“I think someone’s lips are already loose enough,” Glory said.

Bert started to laugh but stopped when Major glared at him.

“Okay, let’s all just enjoy our dinner,” Dot said. “We need to speak words of love to each other and celebrate who Mags was, not second-guess her actions. It’s her life, her house, her decision.”

I looked down at my lap and smiled. Dot was Mags’s best friend in the world. It made sense she would echo what Mags had said in her letter to me.

“Everybody agree?”

We all nodded. Glory winked at me from across the table. I smiled back at her. Everyone watched as Bert uncorked the bottle and poured a couple inches into each glass. His calm movements soothed our frayed nerves. One by one, everyone reached over and took a glass, even Major.

I waited until everyone had taken a sip before I spoke. “It means a lot that Mags trusted me with her home. In all of our conversations, she never said anything about leaving the house to me. If she wanted to surprise me, she did it. I have a lot going on with my shop and—”

“Yes, your shop,” Glory said. “Did you see the binder by the couch when you came in? She always kept it in her bedroom, but we brought it out so you could see it. She has every magazine article that has ever mentioned you or Bits and Pieces. She showed that binder to everyone who came through the door. She was so proud of you.”

I always told Mags when a magazine writer or reporter came into the shop with a voice recorder and a notebook, telling me we’d been noticed again by another editor somewhere. Sometimes I worried she’d think I was flaunting my success, but she always celebrated with me. I had no idea she’d gone to the trouble of tracking down the magazines and clipping the articles.

“Sara, you have quite a talent and we”—Dot bored a hole in Major with her eyes—“think you’ll be the perfect person to whip this place into shape. I, for one, am glad for it. A few cans of paint and a hammer or two are just what we need around here.”

From the little I’d seen before dinner, painting and hammering were the least of my concerns. If I decided to sell the house—and living three hours away, did I have another choice?—I’d have to do a lot of work just to get it ready for the market. Talking about selling right now was premature, but finding a good contractor wasn’t.

“I’ll check everything out, put a plan together, and start calling around,” I said. “I’m good at cosmetic updates, but I’m no expert on plumbing, wiring, any of that.”

“Now, don’t get too ahead of yourself, dear,” Dot said. “The house doesn’t need that much work. She’s still a beauty, much like your grandmother. She just needs some spit and polish.”

“We’ll start there and see how it goes,” I said carefully.

“And have you thought of your plans for the house aside from the renovation?” Glory asked.

I knew what she was really asking. “I haven’t thought about much, honestly. It’s been a quick couple of hours.”

“Just give us some warning if you decide to pull the rug out from under us,” Major said.

“Mags specifically asked me to do that. Even if she hadn’t, you know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

With dinner mostly over, Bert stood to get the dessert. “Someone dropped off a hummingbird cake this morning. I’ve been holding myself back all day.”

“So many people have been bringing food by,” Glory said. “Such kindness.”

“I didn’t know Mags had so many friends,” I said.

“Most everyone in Sweet Bay has been helped by Mags at one time or another,” Bert said. “Either that, or their parents were. Anyway, this is what Southern people do, whether they know the deceased or not. You know that.” He set the cake down in the center of the table as if he made it himself.

“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to pass on dessert,” I said. “I think I’ll walk around a little before heading upstairs.”

“You sure you don’t want any? You’re not one of those girls who never lets herself eat sweets, are you?” Bert asked. “If nothing else, that’s what grief is for. You can stuff yourself silly and blame it on the person who died.”

“Bert! That’s terrible,” Dot said.

“I’m just kidding and Sara knows it. But we do have a counter full of cakes and pies in the kitchen. Someone will have to eat it all.”

“I’ll have a slice tomorrow,” I said as I stood.

“Let us know if you need anything,” Dot said. “Your room is all ready, but I may have forgotten something. Feel free to look around, go on down to the dock, whatever you want. The place is yours.”

“Sure is,” Major said under his breath. “She’s got the keys to prove it.”

I spent the next hour walking around the house and yard to get a sense of what a renovation would entail. Of course I’d seen the house each time I’d come back for visits, but I hadn’t taken a hard look at it with a critical eye.

Inside, it was hard to get a sense of the space because most of the rooms were overstuffed with furniture, as if each person who’d moved into the house over the years had added a treasured chair or table to the mix. The resulting hodgepodge of furniture matched neither each other nor the style of the house. A few pieces stuck out though, and for good reason—an oak pie safe with hand-punched tin covering the bottom shelves, an armoire with delicate scrollwork carved into the pine at the top and bottom, and a corner hutch covered in peeling white paint and doors with squares of wavy glass. These had been in the house for as long as I could remember, but before, they’d just been part of the overall chaos of the house. Now, I saw they bore the handmade, vintage charm so many of my customers craved.