The Hideaway

When lunchtime rolled around, I made a plate of chicken salad and coffee cake left over from the mountain of funeral food and headed out to the dock. Dot and Bert were in town for groceries, and the house was calm, a stark contrast to the previous day’s whirl of activity. I sensed that this quiet peacefulness was how the house had been for much of the time since I’d left. From what Major said, they’d all settled into a tranquil existence here. I remembered the old magazine articles that featured the house as one of the top vacation destinations in the Southeast.

Taking in the house from the long grassy hill that sloped down to the water, I had trouble imagining The Hideaway as anything but a tired, sprawling old home. The house had been a much livelier place when I was a child, but nothing close to the resort featured in the magazines. Fireworks, boat tours, badminton on the lawn—it was more than hard to imagine. It was impossible.

I settled in a chair out on the dock and took my first bite when I heard a voice behind me.

“Well, if it isn’t Sara Jenkins, back from the dead.”

Clark Arrington. Perfect.

“That’s probably not the most appropriate thing to say, considering my grandmother just died,” I said in place of a greeting. Clark had always been just socially awkward enough to offend most people, even if he wasn’t trying.

“I sure was sorry to hear about Mrs. Van Buren. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine. I see you still live across the street.”

“Yeah. I’m in the apartment above my parents’ garage, but I’m moving out soon.” I wondered how long he’d been telling people he’d soon be moving out of his parents’ home. “You here for long or just for the funeral?”

“Looks like I’ll be here for a little bit. I’ll be doing some work on the house.”

“I see.” He walked to the edge of the dock and peered into the water below. “Tide’s coming in.” He straightened up and stared at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. “And the owner’s okay with you doing the work?”

“The owner? That’d be me now. Mags left me the house in her will and asked me to fix the place up, so yes, I’d say the owner is fine with it.” Why was I defending myself to him?

“I’d just be careful if I were you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You haven’t been here much lately. A lot has been going on.”

I assumed he was messing with me, like he did when he used to taunt me in the yard on his bicycle. I once threw a Coke can at him as hard as I could because he had made fun of Mags. The can fell short, landing feebly in the water at his feet, adding embarrassment to my anger. I ran into the house, the sound of his laugher echoing in my head, and flung myself across my bed in tears. Part of me was mad at Mags for being so easy to make fun of, for having this grand old house but letting it be so shabby, for not caring about rules and the way things were supposed to be, but on the heels of that came guilt for being mad. Mags was my grandmother, kooky but loving.

This time, I didn’t have a Coke can to throw at him, but I wouldn’t have given him the satisfaction anyway. “Thanks for the heads-up, Clark. I have things to do, so if you’ll excuse me.” I picked up my plate and cup and headed toward the house.

“You remember Sammy Grosvenor?”

I stopped walking. Sammy was a well-known Baldwin County developer. He’d been sticking his nose into waterfront property owners’ business for decades. He used to knock on Mags’s door, reeking of body odor covered with strong cologne, mopping his forehead with a damp rag. Each time, he’d say he had been out walking around and admired the property. And each time, Mags told him to get lost.

“It’s a lot of money, Mrs. Van Buren,” he’d say. “You could turn in the keys and spend your golden years with your feet up and a drink in your hand.”

“Do I look like someone who wants to snooze the rest of my life away, Mr. Grosvenor?” She’d spit his name out like it tasted bad. “This is my home, and I’m not selling it. If you were smart, you’d stop sniffing around here.”

Sammy was the one thing on which Mags and many of the other townspeople agreed. No one liked the way he scoped out homes and businesses as if he imagined a theme park in their place. Dot always told Mags she should be careful with Sammy, but Mags was never too concerned. If she didn’t let wind blowing through a broken glass pane in the kitchen bother her, she definitely wouldn’t be bothered by a land developer who had so far been all talk.

Clark’s name-dropping let me know Sammy was still on the prowl, still trying to get his hands on the property. I wasn’t worried, though. Mags could be a bear when she wanted to, but I had more professional ways of making him get lost. Starting with a court order if necessary.

“Yeah, I ran into him a while back,” Clark said. “He started babbling about this old house here. Something about his time finally coming. I don’t know what he meant, but it smelled fishy to me. He was excited though. I’ll tell you that much.”

I kept walking toward the house. This was nothing more than Sammy attempting another dead-end scheme and Clark trying to get in the middle of it all. However, deep down, in some small, hidden part of me, something squeezed. Sammy could be ruthless if he wanted to be.

I walked up the porch steps and made sure the screen door slammed shut behind me.

13

SARA

APRIL

The office of Coastal Contractors couldn’t have looked more opposite than what I had imagined. The mental image of Earl sitting on the porch in his dirty overalls quickly dissipated as I turned off County Road 1 at the sign bearing the now-familiar heron and setting sun. The cottage overlooking the water was quaint, its cedar-shake siding weathered to a relaxed gray—the kind of gray that sent people back for paint chips again and again, trying to get the same shade on their walls.

I collided with a mess of black fur and a wet tongue as soon as I walked through the open door.

“Popcorn, down!” a male voice said. “Sorry, she just gets excited. It’s been a quiet day, so you’re the lucky recipient of her pent-up attention. Here, try this.” A towel, dry and mostly clean, appeared in my hand as I held my now-damp dress away from my legs. I wiped at my arms and right cheek, trying without success to remove all traces of the sticky slobber. I had never been much of a dog person. Too much wet, not enough manners.

Giving up the futile attempt, I looked up to see a man pushing the dog out the back door. “Crawford, she’s headed your way,” he yelled before closing the door on Popcorn’s protests.

“Sorry about the commotion.” He wiped his hands on his shorts. The room smelled strangely like raw fish. “I’m Charlie Mack. How can I help you? Or do you need directions somewhere?” His gaze drifted down to my dress and sandals, a few notches too dressy for an afternoon on the bay and the affections of an exuberant Labrador.

“Actually, I do need some help. I’m an interior designer in New Orleans, but I’m in Sweet Bay working on an old bed-and-breakfast.”

“Is it a tear-down?”

“No. It’s an old house and not in the best shape, but its bones are good. It’s probably best to consider everything suspect—wiring, gas lines, the whole bit. It’ll need a thorough inspection first. From there, I’m thinking about taking down a couple interior walls, updating the kitchen and baths, and a whole lot of painting.”