The Hideaway

“That’s too bad. Once this house is fixed up, you’ll be sad to let it go. Mark my words: it’s going to be a showstopper.”

Later that afternoon, I waited until the upstairs hall was quiet before I pulled down the creaky attic stairs and climbed up to retrieve the box. After Crawford left, I hadn’t been able to focus on anything except the box and its mysterious contents. Part of me felt like I did when I scored a big find at a junk shop or estate sale—excited to dive in and see what I could make of something old—but another part was scared to wade any further into who Mags might have been.

I tiptoed back to my room with the box and closed the door behind me. I reached into the box, gently pulling out the envelope, and emptied it onto the blue quilt, turning each piece over so the words were visible. They were still disjointed, but I moved them around until most of the torn edges lined up and it seemed maybe they were in the right places. There were gaps, sections of the note that had been lost to the years, but what was left was an even bigger mystery.

Dearest Maggie,

. . . leaving now to save . . . the discomfort . . .

is the right choice . . . know our time . . . your finger . . .

be mine and I . . . in the cove, just as we planned . . .

Love,

William

I stared at the broken note for several long moments trying to sort out the emotion behind the words. Anger? Frustration? Passion? With the missing pieces, it was so hard to tell.

I pulled the box back toward me and laid everything else on the bed—the ring box, stack of newspaper clippings, tiny wooden house, and handful of photographs, the one of Mags on top. But there was something else I hadn’t seen earlier. Stuck down along the edge of the box was a yellowed postcard. It had a picture of Mobile’s Bellingrath Gardens on the front. The postscript on the back was dated June 1960. There was no return address, just one line written in small, neat cursive.

Margaret,

You made the right choice.

Mother

I heard a faint knock at the door, and Dot poked her head in. I discreetly nudged a newspaper clipping over the ring box.

“We’re headed out for dinner. You sure you don’t want to come? We’re going to our regular meat-and-three over in Daphne. Bert hates to miss the early bird specials, and the food is actually pretty good.”

I smiled. “No thanks. I’ll find something here.”

She gestured toward the assortment on my bed. “What’s all that?”

“Just some things I found up in the attic earlier.” I almost said more, but something stopped me. I craved more time alone with all I’d found before I brought Dot into the mystery.

She nodded, her eyes scanning the items. “Okay then. See you when we get back. I’ll try to bring you some leftovers.”

She stepped away from the door but paused before closing it. “Secrets may come to light the deeper you dig in this old place. Feel free to ask me anything. I may not have all the answers, but I can probably come pretty close to the truth.”

17

SARA

MAY

Crawford and his team worked fast. The electrician came during breakfast the next morning. Glory grabbed her coffee and hurried up the steps, her long nightgown billowing out behind her. Ten minutes later, we heard knocking at the door again. It was the foundation specialist. Back at the table, Dot was folding and refolding her napkin.

“It’s okay,” I said. “They’re just here to see if the house has any major problems, which it probably does. It’s better to find out quickly. Remember, this is a good thing.”

Dot’s eyes filled. “I trust you. It’s just hard to see other people trampling around the place.”

“But it’s a bed-and-breakfast. That’s kind of the idea, isn’t it? Didn’t it used to be this way?”

“That was a long time ago. And we made friends with the guests quickly. Look at Major and Glory.”

“You’re welcome to make friends with Larry the electrician, although I doubt he’ll be moving in. He’ll be up in that hot attic checking the wiring, but I’m sure he’d love a piece of Bert’s pie.”

“I know you’re poking fun at me, but maybe I’ll do just that. At least let them know those of us who live here care about the house and are keeping a close eye on them.”

“Just remember they’re here doing a job I hired them to do, and I care about the house too.”

Dot reached over and patted my hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m old and set in my ways. I’m sure whatever you have in mind for this place will be just fine. I’m going to check on that pie.”

I hadn’t planned to say anything just yet about my findings in the attic, but since no one else was around, I took advantage of our privacy. “Dot, did you ever know Mags to be . . . well dressed?”

She paused in the hallway. “Well dressed?” She laughed a little with her back still turned. “Not unless you count those hideous hats as formal attire. What in the world makes you ask that?”

“It’s probably nothing. I just found this old picture of her up in the attic yesterday. She was much younger and looked . . . well, different than I ever saw her.”

“Mags was very pretty.” Dot walked back to the table. “Even as she grew older, she still had that beauty, but when I first moved in here, she was a knockout.”

I nodded. Mags had been pretty—the photo beside my bed in New Orleans showed that. But mentally peeling back the layers to the woman she might have once been and actually seeing that younger woman were two very different things.

I wanted to ask about William and the ring too—the words danced on the end of my tongue—but just then, the front door banged open, followed by the sound of work boots on the hardwood and a tinny radio belting out a Spanish love song. Dot pulled the belt on her robe tighter.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Go on and get changed.”

“I’d love to talk more about this though. Could you show me the photo later?”

I nodded. “It may be nothing. I just thought I’d check.”

“You never know. Mags wore some getups in her life, that’s for sure.” Dot glanced left and right in the hall before hurrying to the stairs, the pie for Larry the electrician long forgotten.

I sat there a minute longer. Dot’s reaction seemed innocent enough, but that hesitant pause before she turned around spoke louder than her casual dismissal of the photo. I’d said it may be nothing, but Mags’s neat hair and prim smile told a different story.

I spent the rest of the morning taking inventory of all the furniture in the house. So much of it had to go—La-Z-Boy recliners, a velour couch with cat scratches along both arms, at least fifteen water-stained occasional tables, even a strange orb-shaped plastic chair that shouldn’t have been allowed out of 1972.

Hidden among the ugliness were a few pieces I could work with. Mags’s chair for writing letters sat in a corner of the main living room. It was an old Chesterfield with nailhead trim, its leather in surprisingly good condition. Even after the invention of e-mail—not to mention texts—Mags kept in touch with former guests by writing letters to them. She always used thick, creamy Crane stationery embossed with a breezy, swirly M in the upper left corner.

Such traditional stationery always seemed out of character for her, but she said it was a sacrilege to use anything else. Saturday was her day for writing, and this chair was the place. Her old cat, Stafford, would sit with her, his hind legs on the back of the chair and his front paws draped over Mags’s shoulders.