The Hideaway

I figured New Orleans had enough mix of high and low, uptown and downtown, that I needed to relax my rules a bit. However, I did draw the line at voodoo dolls. Instead, he scattered tiny white porcelain skulls throughout the shop. Several of my customers bought them to use as unconventional hostess gifts.

The day went on as it usually did. Being the middle of the week, most of the customers breezing in and out were locals. Weekends were for the tourists. A few regular clients had hired me to redecorate their houses, and one popped in to show me photos of sideboards she wanted me to look for the next time I went scavenging. A student from the New Orleans Academy of Fine Art brought by a selection of framed photographs for me to display. Allyn picked up sandwiches from Guy’s Po-Boys.

As we neared closing time, Allyn ducked into the back office to check a few voice mails that had slipped in while the shop was busy earlier in the day. After a moment, he motioned to me from the hallway.

“Some lawyer called. He said he needs to talk to you about a Mrs. Van Buren?” He shrugged. “Asked you to call him as soon as you can.”

It had been over a week since I’d talked to Mags. We usually talked on Sunday afternoons, but I’d missed our last call because of a water leak at the shop. Instead of hearing the latest Sweet Bay gossip, I’d spent the entire day with buckets, soaked towels, and a cranky repairman. By the time I made it back home and showered, it was too late to call. She left a message on my phone the next morning, but we had yet to catch up with each other.

My customer glanced at me, then at his watch. Not wanting to appear distracted, I shook my head. “I’ll have to call him back a little later.”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

As the customer slowly circled the shop, scratching his chin and considering his purchase, I fought a strange urge to jump in my car and drive back to Sweet Bay to see Mags. I laughed under my breath at the impulsive idea. I couldn’t just drop the strings holding my life together and take a break, but I still longed to hear her voice with a force that surprised me.

An hour later, after selling the circa-1896 dining table and packing it into the back of a truck, we finally closed for the day. All I could think about was calling the lawyer. Maybe Mags had gotten herself into hot water with someone in town. I smiled at the thought. It wasn’t out of character for my grandmother, but wouldn’t she want to tell me about it herself? Or, at the very least, Dot could have called to fill me in. Why would a lawyer call for something trivial?

Allyn and I stayed in the shop until seven checking the register, straightening furniture, and tidying up in preparation for the next day. I often didn’t leave until much later, but I headed out early with him.

“Want a lift back to your place?” he asked when we paused in the driveway. “I have an extra helmet.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll take my time getting home. I still have to call the lawyer back.”

“Right. What was that all about?”

“It’s Mags. Van Buren is her last name.”

“Ah, Mags from Sweet Bay, Alabama.” Allyn attempted an exaggerated Southern drawl. “Impressive last name for your eccentric little grandmother.” He was quiet for a moment. “Lawyers don’t usually call with good news, Boss.” He fit his helmet over his head.

“I’ve already thought of that.”

“Did she mention anything when you talked to her on Sunday?”

“I missed the call. I was here with Butch and the gaping hole in the roof, remember?” I pinched his elbow, and he pinched me back.

“I still don’t understand why you don’t go back to Sweet Bay more often. Or why not bring her here for a visit sometime? I make a killer White Russian. Don’t old people like those?”

I laughed. “I have no idea if she likes White Russians. And I do visit. I told you all about my Christmas trip—Bert almost burned the tree down trying to decorate it with lit candles. Mags had to douse it with the fire extinguisher. It was total chaos as usual. Our Sunday phone calls work just fine.”

“Maybe for you. I bet Mags would love to see your face more often. Who wouldn’t?” He patted my cheek and slung one leg over the seat of his motorcycle. “It’s not like you have to make a crosscountry trip to get there.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and glared at him, but he was right. I may have left Mags and my small hometown for the greener pastures of New Orleans, but Mags was my only family—I owed her more than I’d given her.

“Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. Go ahead and make your phone call. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Allyn lifted his helmet to give me a quick kiss on the cheek, revved the engine a few times, and sped away.

Instead of heading for the bus to take me back to Canal, I took a left on Napoleon and walked toward St. Charles. On the way, I pulled out my cell and thumb-swiped to my voice mailbox. Five or six unanswered messages stared up at me from the bright screen, Mags included. She’d rambled on about nothing in particular so with the ongoing roof problem that week, I hadn’t made time to return her call. I touched her name on the screen and the sound of her voice filled the air around me.

As I heard it a second time, the tone of her voice struck me as unusual. I must not have noticed it before because of the chaos surrounding the water leak, but she didn’t sound as chipper as she usually did. Just after she gave me a rundown of the squirrels uprooting her geraniums and the bats in the chimney at The Hideaway, she paused and sighed.

“I know it’s not a holiday, or even close to one, but I’d love to see you, dear. Sometimes, the sight of your face is all . . . well” She cleared her throat and laughed a little. “Things are busy over there, I know. It’s not like I’m going anywhere, so you just come whenever you can. Don’t change your plans for me.”

Her message finished just as I approached the handful of other folks waiting for the streetcar on St. Charles. I sat on a bench away from the group and fiddled with my phone, switching it from hand to hand. I wanted to call Mags—to check on her, to apologize for not calling earlier—but something compelled me to call the lawyer first. I pushed the button, and my stomach knotted as I waited.

“Ah, Ms. Jenkins. Thank you for calling me back. I was just about to walk out the door.”

I heard him settling back down in his chair, then a file folder slapped the desk. “I’m Vernon Bains, Mrs. Van Buren’s lawyer. Has anyone contacted you?”

“No. What is this about?” I asked, ignoring the gentle sadness in his voice.

“Your grandmother passed away this morning. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Mrs. Ingram didn’t feel she could handle speaking about it yet. She asked if I would break the news to you.”

I closed my eyes and turned my back to the other people waiting for the streetcar, then covered my eyes with my free hand, pressing my temples until it hurt.

“You’ll be happy to know she didn’t suffer. She complained of some chest pain, so Dot brought her in to the doctor. They couldn’t have known it before, but Mrs. Van Buren was at the beginning of what turned into a major heart attack. The doctor called for an ambulance, but she died on the way to the hospital. Dot said it looked like she just closed her eyes and fell asleep.”

I thought of the streetcar rumbling down the tracks toward me as it picked up and deposited people at various points on the line. Three and a half more minutes and it would stop for me.