The Hideaway

Charlie leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his considerable girth. Crawford sat closer to the table, fingers twirling a pencil, eyes on me. Popcorn whined at the door, waiting to be let out.

“Sure. Of course. You’re hired.”

“Okay then,” Crawford said, a smile lifting a corner of his mouth. “When can I see it?”

That evening, in the purple dusk after sunset, I strolled out into the backyard. An old streetlight attached to a wooden beam marked the path to Mags’s vegetable garden. It wasn’t what it used to be—rows of tilled earth straight as an arrow, little markers noting what each row contained, tall wooden spikes to stake the tomato plants—but it was clear Mags had been doing her best to keep the garden up. The rows weren’t as obvious and some of the markers were missing, but from what remained, it looked like there’d be a bounty of snap beans, purple-hull peas, and cucumbers later in the summer.

The garden sat adjacent to the house and overlooked the bay. Mags used to say that, sitting in the garden, she could see everything that was important to her—the house, her plants peeking their heads through the soil, the water making its unhurried way to the Gulf. She could listen to the voices of her friends and the laughter of seagulls.

Memories surfaced as I settled down on the worn bench. I used to run barefoot up and down the deliberate rows of fertile soil, flapping my arms to scare away the crows. I’d squat over delicate strawberry vines, the aroma of dirt and life permeating the air, and carefully choose the plump, red berries that Bert would later use in his not-yet-famous strawberry pie. Even as a teenager, I welcomed the chore, eating at least as many berries as would end up in my basket. Sitting there in the falling dark, I could imagine the furry skin on my tongue, the tiny seeds popping, a burst of summer sweetness in each bite.

I ran my hand over the surface of the bench next to me. It was a gnarled, weather-beaten thing, but beautiful in its own way. No frills, just cedar boards fastened with wooden nails and dovetail joints. It still bore remnants of an old coat of green paint.

As my fingers rounded the edge, they found an indentation in the wood on the underside of the bench. I took it for another mark from a carpenter bee, but as I rubbed it, a shape began to emerge. I got down on my knees and peered underneath. As I tipped the bench back, the glow from the light fell across the wood and revealed the engraving of an old skeleton key.

I recognized that key.

Mags’s headstone had been simple—it bore her name and the dates of her birth and death. It wasn’t until after the graveside service that I noticed the carving at the very bottom. It was a small key, just like this one, along with the words, “You hold the key to my heart.”

I never knew my grandfather, though I’d always referred to him as Granddaddy. My mom was only a few years old when he died, so her memories of him were few. Anytime I asked Mags about him, she just repeated that it was a tragic, too-early heart attack but wouldn’t offer any more information. She was single my whole life. No other romantic interests that I knew of. It seemed strange that she would have made such a public pronouncement of love for her long-gone husband when I’d never once heard her talk about him, other than the few times I’d asked. The sentiment seemed too romantic for my simple, often stoic grandmother.

But she chose to add a last whisper of love on her headstone. Could it have been for someone other than Granddaddy?

14

MAGS

APRIL 1960

Mrs. DeBerry didn’t show up for her usual morning toast and pot of tea out in the yard. A few of us stood outside her bedroom door. I knocked but got no response.

“Maybe she died in her sleep,” Starla whispered. “What? It happens,” she said when we shushed her. “She was old. Maybe her ticker gave out.”

I knocked again. “Y’all were up late last night. Did any of you notice anything? Maybe she fell.”

“No, nothing,” Gary said.

“You wouldn’t have noticed a garbage truck if it had rumbled through the living room,” Starla said, laughing.

“I can’t help it if—”

I cut off their banter by pushing open the door. Inside, Mrs. DeBerry’s small room was neat and clean. And empty. The furniture remained, but every personal item was gone. The dresser top was bare, and pale squares stood out on the walls where frames had hung for decades.

I backed out of the room and bumped into Daisy.

“Oh, Maggie, I was just looking for you. This was on the kitchen counter this morning.” Daisy handed me a creamy envelope—heavy paper, fine stationery—with my name printed on it. “That’s Mrs. DeBerry’s handwriting,” she said.

As Starla, Daisy, and the others talked over each other, trying to decide what exactly had happened, I retreated up to my room. On the way, I tore open the envelope and pulled out the card inside.

Maggie,

It just got to be too much. I hope you of all people will understand. I can tell you come from good people and you’ll take care of the house as it deserves. The spare key is under the pansies on the back porch and six extra sets of sheets are in the closet in my bedroom. Call Ned Lemon if the pilot light goes out.

I sat on my bed and dropped the card on the quilt next to me. Mrs. DeBerry had said her good-bye to me the night she gave me the mink and I hadn’t even realized it. She’d gone through the house, taking what was important to her, and left everything else for us to figure out.

“Who else would she have asked?” William said when I escaped to his workshop to give him the news. “No way would she trust the others around here who float in and out of the house all day and night.”

“People don’t just go leaving houses to strangers.”

“She must have seen what I see in you. You’re smart, hardworking, and determined. You do what needs to be done. Think of it this way—you want something different out of life, right?”

I nodded.

“This could turn out to be a very good thing for you. Maybe even for us.”

I leaned into him and closed my eyes. “This is insane. What do I know about running a bed-and-breakfast?”

He wrapped his arms around my back. “We’ll figure it out together. And anyway, what else do you have to do?”

I could have thrown out a dozen reasons why I wasn’t a good candidate to take over the house, but as I stood there wrapped in William’s arms, the idea began to take root in my mind. After all, with no husband to support me, no formal job training, and no money other than the check from Daddy, I didn’t have much going for me.

But there was something else. This house had offered me a respite, a shelter from the storms in my life. And it had given me William. If taking over the house would allow us to stay safe and undisturbed in The Hideaway’s cocoon, then that’s what I would do.

That night around the dinner table, William and I told everyone about Mrs. DeBerry’s departure and the note she left behind. A stunned silence met us, then everyone began to talk at once. A few were angry and some were distraught, thinking they’d lose what had essentially become the ideal artists’ retreat. But most were satisfied and gave me their blessing, just as William had predicted.

“It’s okay with me if you run the place,” Starla said. “You’ve turned out to be all right. At least you’re not wearing that pillbox hat anymore.” She grinned at me and I returned the smile.