The Hideaway

“I don’t exactly have experience running a business.”

“You’ll be fine,” Starla said. “How hard can it be?”

As the conversation around the table grew lively, I saw what The Hideaway could be under my care. Mrs. DeBerry likely hoped I’d be the one to turn it back into the pillar of Southern hospitality it used to be. True, it would be a place for hospitality, but not the kind she had in mind. No ladies in hats and gloves and no dashing men—not unless they bore wood dust on their legs or carried a paintbrush in their hands.

William carved a new sign for the house. He worked hard on it, making sure each letter was smooth and perfect.

“This could be your ticket to fame and fortune,” he said once we pulled off the side of the road next to the old, faded sign. “People will come from all over just to see your Hideaway. You just wait.”

I helped him heft the enormous wooden sign out of the back of his truck.

“I’m proud of you,” he continued. “You can make something of yourself here—something that’s just you.”

I stayed silent as we leaned the new sign up against the post of the old one. His insinuation that I hadn’t been my own person before didn’t sit well. But hadn’t I said it myself? Wasn’t it true? I’d been fit into a mold before, and I was only now experiencing life with full breaths of air and space to move.

We stood back against the truck to admire the sign. It was perfect. It would guide just the right kind of traveler to The Hideaway. Not those looking for a resort or a game of badminton on the lawn, but those folks who needed a place to stay. A place to call home.

15

MAGS

APRIL 1960

The warmer spring temperatures allowed us to finally stow our blankets and heavy soup pots. When I wasn’t working in the house or helping William with odd jobs in his wood shop, we made light meals of sandwiches or grilled fish, listened to music, and spent long afternoon hours in the cove, our pale limbs stretched out on a towel to soak up the spring sun.

One evening, I found a can of bright blue-green paint on a shelf in his workshop. On a whim I grabbed the can, a paintbrush, and a box of sandpapers and carried it all to the front porch. Using a firm hand and long strokes I’d learned from watching William, I sanded the peeling paint off the shutters and door, then covered them with fresh paint. Later, I blew my damp hair out of my eyes and stepped back into the driveway to examine my work.

A woman walking around the side of the house paused and backed up a few steps. She cocked her head and stared at the porch, then turned to me. “Did you do that?”

I nodded.

“Hmm. Not bad.”

Over the span of a few weeks, William carved a house for me—intricately detailed, but small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. He presented it to me at the cove on a blessedly warm Saturday. He pulled me away from dinner preparations that afternoon, saying he needed to show me something. I’d been chopping peppers and onions for pasta. I wiped my hands on my apron and followed him, thinking we were headed to his workshop. Instead, he led me to his truck and opened the passenger door.

“I can’t leave right now—the pasta . . .”

“Yes, you can. Starla can take care of it. This is important.”

I shook my head, frustrated with his spontaneity, but good Lord, he was handsome and so earnest. I abandoned the dinner and climbed into his rusty old truck.

At the cove he took my hand and led me to the water’s edge. “I’m going to build a house in this cove one day. Just for us.” He held the delicate carving out to me. “Hold on to this for now, and our real house will come.”

“Is this your way of proposing to me?” I turned the house over in my hands, trying to cover my smile with a frown.

“No, when I propose, you’ll know. This is just my way of saying, hang on, there’s more to me than what you see. I can give you more than sawdust-covered hands and an old truck that won’t even play the radio for you. I can’t build it right now—it might not even be soon—but one day, I will.”

“Right now, you’re enough for me. Just you.”

His eyes searched me, as if trying to decipher something written on my face. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he smiled and retrieved a camera from the bag he’d brought with him. I held my hand up, but he snapped a picture anyway.

“What was that?” I asked as he placed the camera back in his bag.

“Just want to remember this day. Come on,” he said and began to remove his pants.

“What are you doing?” I laughed and turned away.

“What are you doing? I’m going swimming.”

William built other things for me—a sideboard buffet for the dining room, several small occasional tables, and a corner armoire with glass doors to hold dishes. On each of these pieces, just out of sight so no one noticed but me, he carved an old skeleton key. It became his trademark, and he carved it into each piece he made, even the ones he sold to other people.

My favorite piece was a simple cedar bench with practical, sturdy legs and a coat of moss-green paint. I’d started a vegetable garden in a sunny patch of grass next to the house, so he placed the bench there where I could keep an eye on things as they grew. We often went out to the garden together after dinner and sat on the bench while the sun went down, listening to the late-day sounds around the house. I imagined us sitting on that bench at the end of the day for the rest of our lives, listening, watching, loving.

As life with William was smooth and easy, the situation at the house was deteriorating. I didn’t know just how poor The Hideaway’s finances were until I spent some time in Mrs. DeBerry’s account book. It was a mess, but even I could see that she’d fallen behind on house payments the last several months. The bank had sent two letters, the second less friendly than the first. The men in suits must have come after Mrs. DeBerry ignored the letters. With only a couple hundred dollars left in the account at First Coastal Bank and not much coming in from the “guests,” it wouldn’t be long before we had no money to keep the lights on, much less satisfy the bank.

I still had the check Daddy gave me the day I left home, but I hadn’t even looked at it—it was buried in the pocket of my suitcase, along with my wedding ring and pearl necklace. In a way, that check was tied to Robert, and until now, I’d wanted nothing to do with it. I’d planned to save it until it was really needed. Now, it was. With the possibility of losing The Hideaway right in front of me, it made the most sense to use that money to pay down what Mrs. DeBerry owed to the bank. When I cashed the check at First Coastal and asked to deposit the money into the account to pay the house payments, the teller smiled.

“I don’t know where you got the money, but I’m glad for it. I would have hated to see that lovely house shuttered. It seems like a nice place.”

I smiled back. “It is.”

I held a meeting one afternoon—a family gathering of those living in the house at the time. I stuck notes under everyone’s doors, asking them to meet me in the parlor at 4:00 p.m. sharp. I wanted the note to express authority and the gravity of the situation.

“Thank you, everyone, for coming,” I said, once they all settled down on chairs and couches. I willed my voice to be strong. “As you know, Mrs. DeBerry is gone and she has left The Hideaway with me. You all have an invitation to stay on as guests in the house as long as you like, but I need you to be able to pay somehow.”