The Hideaway

Dot laughed. “Mags never would have actually hurt him, but the important thing was Harry didn’t know that. Everyone knew Mags could shuck oysters faster than the men down at the docks, so for all Harry knew, she’d shuck out his heart with her little pearl-handled oyster knife.”

“Her gardener, Luis, packed up some of her belongings one day and brought them all over here for her,” Bert said. “He handed her the bags and a pink rose he’d plucked from someone’s yard on the way over. We saw a lot of him after that, and they finally left for California together. We didn’t hear from her again. Not until she walked in here today.”

“Sounds like Mags was a good friend,” I said.

“Sure was,” Dot said. “She was the best.”

We were quiet a moment until Dot spoke again. “Have you thought any more about your plans for the house?”

“I’ve had a chance to look around. I have a few ideas. Nothing too drastic yet.”

“I just hate to see it change too much. Mags liked it the way it is,” Dot said.

“I’m sure she did in some ways, but she left me with specific instructions to fix it up. You have to admit, the house has seen better days. I’m good at my job, but it won’t be worth it if I only use a hammer and a can of paint,” I said as gently as I could and waited for Dot’s reaction. She had become the mouthpiece for the four still living in the house. I wasn’t looking for permission, but if I had her blessing, I knew the others would fall in line.

She took a deep breath and looked at Bert. He raised his eyebrows and held his hands up in surrender. “It’s your call, honey.”

“We all know I don’t have a real say in this,” Dot said. “The house is yours now to do what you like. Me? I’m partial to the old place being a little rumpled—just like Mags was—but I understand most people wouldn’t agree. You do what you need to do to spiff it up, whatever that means. If you think you might sell it when you’re done, just try to give us as much warning as you can. I know you have a life to get back to in New Orleans, but remember we have a life here in this place.”

“You took your first steps out here on this porch, did you know that?” Bert asked.

I shook my head.

“That’s right,” Dot said. “Jenny brought you over here one afternoon before the evening rush at the diner. You’d been on the verge of taking off for a few weeks. She wasn’t gone ten minutes before you put one foot in front of the other and toddled clear across the porch. I still remember the look on your little face when you realized what you’d done.”

“I’ve never heard that story,” I said.

“An old house can hold on to its memories for only so long,” Bert said. “We may hold you hostage at night and spoon-feed you old stories.”

“Bert,” Dot said firmly. “She does not want to sit around here with a bunch of old folks all night.” Dot turned to me. “Mags did ask you to stay at the house while you’re in Sweet Bay. Is that your plan?”

“Sure beats the Value Inn on Highway 6,” Bert said.

I smiled. “I think I will stay here. Judging by how much work there is to do, it’ll be easier if I’m here to at least make sure things start off right. If that’s okay with all of you,” I said, not wanting to sound, well, like I owned the place.

Dot smiled. “I was hoping you’d stay.” She looked at Bert. “Not so we can smother you in old stories, but so you can get a real sense of the life here. This was your home too. It still is. We all need a place to escape real life sometimes.”

My life felt fine to me—no need to escape, thank you—but maybe there was something to what Allyn said about making peace.

11

MAGS

MARCH 1960

Just before I left for one of my trips to Grimmerson’s Grocery for weekly supplies, the doorbell rang. I left my list in the kitchen and walked to the front door. Mrs. DeBerry came out of the living room just as I arrived at the door, and I stood by as she opened it.

A man in a dark suit and sunglasses stood on the porch holding a briefcase. “Are either of you”—he looked down at the piece of paper in his hand—“Mrs. Henry DeBerry?”

I looked at Mrs. DeBerry.

“I am,” she said, turning to me. “Could you put the kettle on the stove for me, dear? I’d love a cup of tea.”

“Of course.” I started down the hall, though curiosity paused my feet by the staircase where I could still hear them talk.

“I’ve already asked you people to stop coming to the house. The money is coming if you can give me just a little more time.”

“Mrs. DeBerry, this is your second notice. You won’t get a third. I understand you have several people living under your roof. I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate—”

“Can you step out on the porch, please?” she asked a little too brightly. “Let’s just talk out here, why don’t we?” She pulled the door behind her, closing me out of the conversation.

Another man like this one had come to the house the week before, but I hadn’t thought much about him. I’d asked Mrs. DeBerry later if we were going to have a new guest at the house, and she laughed. “Oh no, he won’t be staying here.”

I opened the envelope of cash I was about to take to the grocery store, then ran back to the door. I flung it open, only to find the man climbing into his car and Mrs. DeBerry pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks.

I held the envelope out to her. “We can do without a trip to the store this week. We have leftovers, and Starla and I can rework the meals around what we still have in the pantry. You can use this.”

“Don’t be silly. Everything is fine. I told Mr. Curtis he must have written the wrong name down. Simple as that. You go on to the grocery and be sure to pick up a box of tea bags for me.”

Mrs. DeBerry ambled down the hall to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. I went on to the grocery and tried to put the thought of Mr. Curtis out of my head.

When I wasn’t helping Starla in the kitchen or cleaning up after the artists, I sat in William’s workshop while he worked. His hands carved rough planks of pine and oak into smooth, practical pieces. Kitchen tables. Pie safes. Armoires. Buffet tables. Things Mother would display proudly at the front of the house. I told him so.

He nodded as he pushed a piece of sandpaper down the length of a table leg. Up and down. Slow and steady. “Your life at home sounds a lot different from mine.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, not as innocent as I sounded.

“I make the furniture people like your mother show off at parties, but I don’t actually go to the parties.”

“You’re not missing much.”

He laughed, just a puff of air from his nose. “What are you doing here?”

“You know why I’m here. I’ve already told you.”

He put the sandpaper down and slapped his hands against his pants to rid them of dust. He marched over to me, grasped me firmly by the shoulders, and lowered his head so we were at equal height. “Tell me why you’re still here.”

“I-I’ve stayed because of you. Because everything feels different with you. I’m different with you.” I pushed his hands off my shoulders. “Why are you asking me this? You were the one who said your life began when you saw me at the front door. Have you changed your mind?”