The Hideaway

Most answered me with grumbles and whispers.

“We had an understanding,” someone piped up. “With Mrs. D.”

“It wasn’t exactly an understanding from what she told me. She needed the money, but she didn’t have the heart to ask. Now, I need your money, and I’m asking you to pay. Before you all get mad, I understand your professions as artists dictate that your financial . . . statuses may not be steady. I get that. But I need you to pay something. Get a part-time job, find new galleries to show your work, whatever. The bottom line is room and board can no longer be free. We’ll all have to pull our weight here or we’ll sink. As it is, we’re behind on several bills, and sinking may not be far behind. This house is all we have right now. We need it to work.”

I took a deep breath, expecting an onslaught of angry voices or overturned easels. Instead, there was silence.

“I just booked a show at Peterson’s Gallery next month,” said Daisy. “They asked for seven paintings—it’ll be my biggest show yet.”

“I’ve been hired to teach yoga at a studio in Fairhope twice a week,” said Starla.

“I’m working on two armoires for Tom Grimmerson,” came William’s smooth voice. “He stopped by last week and asked to see what I was working on.”

I scanned the room until my eyes found him leaning against the door frame in the entryway. He wore a red work shirt and scuffed boots. A thin coat of sawdust covered the front of his pants, and he smiled that familiar, slow smile I’d come to love. My body told me to cross the room in one stride and bury my face in his neck. I smiled my thanks.

“He has a friend who may be interested in some of my work too,” he said, as if just to me, although everyone in the room watched us. “Good things are coming.”

I kept my gaze on him as the room buzzed with talk of upcoming shows and income possibilities.

This could work. But my thought wasn’t just about the house. It was William, me, a new life. All of it. Good things were coming, indeed.

Then Daddy showed up.

16

SARA

MAY

The next morning, after breakfast and a quick shower, I pulled the string on the bare bulb hanging in the center of the attic ceiling. It didn’t illuminate much, but sunlight trickled in from the eaves on each end of the house. It was a bright day, and the light caught the dust motes my feet stirred up.

I’d decided to start at the top and go down. I had no idea what mementos and clutter previous guests had stored in the attic over the years, but I suspected it would be full to overflowing, much like the rest of the house.

Taking my first look around, I wasn’t far off. One end of the attic housed furniture jumbled together—it was dark under the low ceiling, but I could make out the shape of a few small tables and a bench that used to sit in the dining room along one wall. The back of a small chair caught my eye. When I crept closer, I recognized the little red rocking chair I’d been so proud of as a child. I’d gone with Mags to a yard sale and begged her to buy me the broken-down chair—painted an ugly, faded yellow and missing one armrest. I knew I could make it look better.

We hauled it home, and I went after it with sandpaper, wood glue, and paint. I even fashioned a cushioned bottom out of some old batting I found in Glory’s quilting box and a few squares of leftover fabric printed with smiling cats. I ran my hand over the dusty cotton and wood. My first restoration job. I couldn’t believe Mags still had it.

Bags and boxes littered the rest of the attic, along with a few broken suitcases, an easy chair missing its bottom cushion, and an artificial Christmas tree.

I peered in a few of the boxes—musty clothes, discarded kitchen items, a few ratty teddy bears. Goodwill wouldn’t even take this stuff. I opened the trash bag I’d brought with me and tossed in items no one would miss.

When the bag was bulging, I dragged it across the floor to the ladder. As I backed down the narrow steps, I noticed a box I hadn’t seen earlier. It was pushed so far under the eaves, I could barely see it, but just enough light bounced off it that I could make out a keyhole at the top. I paused with my feet on the ladder, then climbed back up and pulled the box farther into the light.

Dull green metal, the box was unremarkable except for the keyhole. I remembered the envelope Mags left for me, the small key falling into my hand, weightless. I had yet to come across anything in the house with a hole small enough to fit it. I scrambled down the ladder to the blue room and retrieved it.

Back in the attic, I crouched down and slid the key into the hole and turned it. The lid popped open. Inside were several small photo books, a tiny house carved out of wood, yellowed newspaper clippings, and a few loose photographs. Wood chips, still smelling faintly of cedar, littered the bottom of the box.

I paused, hands on either side of the box. It was for me, right? Mags left me the key, and it fit into the lock perfectly. The lid had snapped open willingly. This had to be something she wanted me to see, to have.

I reached in and pulled out the black-and-white photo sitting on top. It was unmistakably Mags, but not the Mags I’d grown up with. Her tiny frame, light eyes, and sharp cheekbones were the same. And her hair—the humidity must have been high, because the edges were beginning to frizz. That was the Mags I knew, but the similarity ended there. This young, unfamiliar Mags wore a shimmery cocktail dress with a rounded neckline, narrow belted waist, and full skirt. A strand of pearls adorned her neck and she wore large pearls in her ears. Her hair, the part that hadn’t frizzed, was rolled into gentle waves peeking out from under a white pillbox hat. Lacy white gloves covered her hands, and she carried a small purse with a silver clasp. On her face was just the barest hint of a prim smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes.

The date stamped along the edge of the photo was 1957.

I’d been in Mags’s closet before—nothing in there even came close to resembling this dress. A dainty and demure Mags? Not a chance. Who was this woman?

The carved house was the length of my hand. It had four rooms, a porch across the front, and a chimney on top. Whoever carved it had exceptional skill with a knife and an obvious love of such fine work. I turned it over in my hands, examining each side. The underside bore the rough engraving of a skeleton key.

The rest of the items in the box begged to be picked up and examined, but laughter from downstairs floated up into the attic. My watch showed it was after nine, and Crawford had said he’d be here at nine on the dot. I placed the wooden house carefully back in with everything else. That’s when I saw the blue velvet box. I pulled it out and gently pried the box open.

Inside, nestled in soft white cotton, lay an exquisite diamond ring. Beautiful not for its cut or size, but in its simplicity. It was breathtaking, perhaps especially because it shone in such opposition to my grandmother’s disdain for anything having to do with money or luxury.

Underneath the box was an envelope, the seal on the back jagged as if it had been ripped open. I worked my fingers inside. Instead of finding something whole, my fingers brushed small pieces of paper. I hesitated, then turned the envelope over and poured it all out into my hand.

The bits of paper were torn, with rough edges and angry rips. The pen had faded but words written in a steady, sure hand were still legible: Maggie, discomfort, your finger, cove. Seen together, maybe they would have meant something, but in my quick scan of the words in the dim light, they meant nothing. The last bit of paper stopped me though.