The Hideaway

Love, William

My grandfather’s name had been Robert.

The words from Mags’s headstone floated back to me: “You hold the key to my heart.”

William? Who are you?

My heart thumped and a bead of sweat trickled down the center of my chest. I carefully slid the bits back into the envelope, then pulled the ring from its home in the box and held it in my palm. I had no way of knowing how long it had been tucked away in the attic, but it sparkled as if it had been cleaned just yesterday.

After glancing at my watch again, I reluctantly put the ring back in its place. I closed the lid on the box and climbed down out of the attic. I’d come back as soon as I could to retrieve the treasures.

When I reached the first floor, I stopped to brush dust off my skirt and pull down my shirtsleeves I’d rolled up. I gathered my hair—still damp from the shower and starting to curl—into a neat bun, took a deep breath, then followed the voices into the dining room.

Crawford sat at the table with Bert, slices of chocolate pie in front of them despite the early hour. They were laughing like old friends. I hesitated at the doorway, not sure how to break up their camaraderie and still trying to slow my hammering heart. Bert noticed me first.

“There you are. Come on in and have some pie. My friend here says it’s his favorite.”

“It’s true. Chocolate pie makes me lose all rational thought,” Crawford said with a smile. He forked the last bite into his mouth and dropped his napkin on his plate. “Thanks for the treat. I’d love to talk some more, but I imagine Sara is ready for me to get to work.”

“You two have fun.” Bert’s smile dimpled his cheeks. He picked up their plates and forks and moved toward the kitchen sink. “Let me know if you need anything while you’re poking around.”

“Looks like y’all hit it off,” I said to Crawford once we were out of earshot.

“I can’t turn down pie. And he was so eager for me to have some.”

“It’s the funeral food. He tries to force it on whoever happens to walk into the kitchen.” My voice was casual, belying none of the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Nervousness was rare for me in a professional situation, and I blamed it on my findings in the attic. Even still, something about being near Crawford made me feel flustered.

He laughed as he walked into the hallway, his hand barely brushing mine on his way past. “Why don’t you show me around?”

We spent the next hour scrutinizing each room of the house. He made notes in a small notebook as I outlined my ideas. Since the funeral, I’d formed a clearer picture of the new Hideaway. Mags said I could do whatever I wanted with it, and after Allyn assured me everything at the shop would go on without a hitch, I’d begun to enjoy the feeling of freedom—both the time away from my hectic work schedule and the anticipation of diving into a new project.

The house had six rooms and a kitchen on the first floor, each room separated by walls to create choppy, awkward spaces. I wanted fewer walls, more open areas, and more light—both in color palette and in natural light flowing in from the tall windows on the south and east sides of the house.

Upstairs, the bedrooms were spacious but dated and plain—fine for Mags and her friends, but not for a more modern B and B. With only three bathrooms, guests—the few who ever came—had no privacy. I wanted the rooms to be luxurious, each with its own private bath and cozy dining space. A small table, a couple of chairs, a microwave, and a mini fridge would appeal to out-of-towners coming for a relaxing stay.

“How I’ll get those out-of-towners to come, I have no idea,” I said as we descended the stairs. “My first point of business is to get the house ready for them, then I’ll figure out the rest. Or if I end up selling it, someone else can figure it out.”

Crawford was quiet as we walked out onto the back porch. I opened the screen door to head into the yard, but he didn’t follow. I turned and saw he was still standing in the doorway.

“You know, I see a lot of houses in the work I do,” he said. “A lot of old houses. I’m not going to say I’m jaded, but I’m also not often blown away by what I see. This one is different though. For one thing, look at these floors.” He gestured down the wide center hallway. “These are heart pine planks. They probably came from a single tree. Cut, planed, and sanded by hand. No one makes houses like this anymore.”

Charlie was right. Old houses were Crawford’s passion. I could see it in the way he stared down the hallway, the way he ran his hand up and down the time-smoothed door frame.

“Even if you do decide to sell, at least you’re not tearing it down. A lot of people buy property down here on the water just for the sunset views. They tear down whatever house sits on the land, often before they’ve even walked through it, and then build an Italian villa in its place. I get it—modern conveniences and all that—but there’s something to be said for the character a century of life can bring to a house.”

“I’m not much for new.” I sat on a wicker chair and tucked my legs under me.

“Right.”

I knew what he was thinking. My trendy silk blouse, slim skirt, and J. Crew ballet flats hardly screamed vintage charm. “I’m serious. Most of what I work with every day is old.”

“I thought you were an interior designer. Don’t most people want new things when they redecorate their houses?”

“Not always. I am a designer, but I also sell vintage furniture in a shop on Magazine Street. I go to estate sales, yard sales, whatever I can find, and buy gorgeous old things for pennies. Usually the owners don’t even know what they’re selling. They’re just trying to clean out Grandma’s house after she died.”

Crawford glanced down and my words hit me. I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips. “Well, that wasn’t very nice of me, was it?”

“I do a little of the same thing,” he said, taking a seat in the chair next to me. “But I make the old furniture instead of looking for it. I pick up old wood—mostly scraps I find on job sites—and turn it into tables, chairs, that sort of thing. It’s all pretty haphazard, to be honest, but my mom likes it.” He smiled. “I’ve sold a few pieces here and there, and I’m working on a table for a client now. That is, when I can find time between work and this boathouse Charlie’s talked me into building.”

“I’d love to see your work sometime.”

“I doubt it’s anything you’d be interested in. To be honest, it looks like it was made in someone’s woodshed in the backyard. And most of it was.”

“Trust me, if it looks in any way like it’s had a past life, I have customers who’ll eat it up.”

Glory stuck her head out the back door then. “Can I get y’all anything? Iced tea? More pie?”

Crawford stood. “No, ma’am. Thank you though.”

“Don’t leave on account of me, now,” she said.

“It’s time for me to head out anyway. I have a stop to make in Fairhope before I go back to the office.”

I walked him back through the house to the front door. He said he’d be in contact soon about prices and materials.

“You really think you’ll sell it once you finish all this work?” he asked at the top of the front porch steps.

I picked at a string on my skirt and shrugged. “I haven’t decided. It seems like the smartest thing to do. I sure can’t stay here and run a bed-and-breakfast.”