The Hideaway

“Death? What are you talking about? Robert is not dead or about to be. He’s been in the mountains with AnnaBelle. If folks are talking about anything, they should be talking about that.”

“He may have started there, but he’s been in a hospital these last few weeks. He had an episode—some sort of shock or mental break. From the war. He’s home now and he needs you.”

I shook my head. “This is crazy. If he’s really sick, then all he needs is someone to nurse him back to health. That could be any woman with a cool washcloth as far as I’m concerned. He doesn’t need me.”

“Listen to yourself! You said ‘in sickness and in health.’ Yes, he did wrong, but Margaret, you have to understand that sometimes men do things to test those marriage vows. If you stand firm, he will see your strength and integrity and renew his commitment to you. It will happen. Believe me, I know.”

I wanted to question him, but I was also afraid that would take us down a path I wasn’t sure I wanted to go.

“This is one of those times when you need to put aside your differences and your . . . your stubbornness, and just be his wife. For the sake of your family. Your future family.” He tilted his head, then looked down at his shoes and sighed. “I know nothing is perfect, but it’s worth a shot. If something happens later and you still want . . .” He raised his hand and gestured to the house. “What comes is what comes. But right now, you need to stand behind the vows you took. I’ve talked to Robert and he sees the error of his ways. I believe him. He’s ready to give you 100 percent.”

I heard a rustle in the hallway again. I got up to look, but by the time I got there, the hall was empty and the front door to the house was just closing. Probably just someone going out for the day. I took a deep breath, my hand shaky on the smooth door frame.

“This is a life-changing decision you’re asking me to make,” I said. “I’ve already changed my life once by coming here. Why would I do it again when the end result isn’t a sure thing?”

“Is what you have now a sure thing? This house? This William? You’ve only been here a short time, and you’ve been married to Robert for three years. Has your time here had that much of an effect on you?”

I thought of William moving his hands expertly across pieces of wood. Wiping the dust from them before crossing the workshop to push my hair out of my face and kiss my lips. I thought of the tiny house he carved for me. Then I thought about Robert’s and my house back in Mobile. The gleaming countertops, the perfectly manicured lawn, the cushioned window seat in the living room that looked out over our treelined street full of antebellum homes.

He stood and smoothed the creases out of his pants. “I think you’ve already made your decision. You need to get home to it.” He nodded, then walked down the hallway and passed through the front door.

20

SARA

MAY

Over the next week, renovation work started in earnest, and stress levels in the house increased accordingly. When the team arrived to repair the cracked and water-stained ceiling in the parlors and dining room, Major and Bert were hard at work at the dining table, Bert looking up new recipes and Major balancing his checkbook. Bert hopped up and moved his cookbooks onto the back porch when the men brought out the plastic sheet to cover the dining room table. Major, in keeping with his nature, grumbled.

“This is my home, people. Why does no one understand this but me?”

“We all understand it,” I said, trying to soothe his irritation. “I know it’s inconvenient, but it won’t last forever.”

He slapped his checkbook closed and pocketed his calculator. “I don’t know what I’m even going to get out of all this.” He trailed behind Bert toward the porch.

“You’ll thank me for it later, Major,” I called after him. I surprised myself by assuming Major would still be living in the house after renovations were over. In truth, I didn’t know what would happen with the house when everything was finished, so I hoped I hadn’t lied to him. If I had to ask him, and everyone else, to move out, no one would be thanking me.

On Friday evening of the first full week of work at the house, Crawford picked me up twenty minutes late for our first date. When I answered the door, he held out a creamy white rose as a peace offering.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His still-damp brown hair curled around the bottom of his ears. He smelled faintly of cedar and fabric softener. Oddly, a splotch of mango-yellow paint stained the front of his khaki pants. The edges of the paint blurred, like he’d tried to wipe it off but only made it worse.

“Don’t laugh. I had to go to a client’s house in Daphne before I came this way. The woman said it was an emergency, so I dropped what I was doing, thinking my guys had taken out the wrong wall or something. Turns out, the painter used the wrong color on her dining room wall.” He held his hands up. “She was mad.”

“Looks like it,” I said, biting back a laugh. I ducked inside and found a vase for the rose, then followed Crawford out to his truck. He opened my door for me, then closed it gently once I settled in.

My stomach had been bothering me for much of the day, and as I got dressed after my shower, it hit me that I was nervous. Had I crossed a line by accepting a date from a man I hired to work for me? I’d never done that with any of the contractors or builders I’d worked alongside back in New Orleans—it went against my nature to mix work with my personal life. But something about Crawford made me want to break the rules. As he pulled out of the driveway and onto Highway 55, the quivering nervousness in my stomach settled.

“I’m glad you said yes,” he said.

I looked over at him. He’d left his window down a couple inches and the breeze ruffled his hair. I took a deep breath and exhaled. Tension slipped away and in its place was peaceful relaxation mixed with a surprising amount of anticipation.

“Me too.”

We drove until we reached the mouth of Sweet Bay where it flowed into Mobile Bay. Turning south, we continued until Crawford pulled down a hidden driveway, much like the one at The Hideaway. At the foot of the drive, a tin-roofed, plank-walled restaurant appeared before us. Crawford pulled into a parking place up front just as a dog nosed its way out of the front porch screen door.

“Don’t worry, it’s better than it looks,” Crawford said.

Inside, the hostess grabbed two menus and wound us through the tight quarters of the dining room and out onto the spacious deck in the back. Settled at our table, I leaned back in my chair. The bay was bathed in the bright pinks and deep purples of the late evening sunset.

“I’ve missed this,” I said.

“Missed what?”

I looked out to the bay. “The water, the sunset, all of it.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but there is water in New Orleans, right?”

I laughed. “Yes, of course there’s water. The Mississippi River swims right through the city, but I spend most of my time at my shop or at home in the Quarter. I can easily go days, or even weeks, without seeing the water at all.”

“That’s a shame. Seems like a girl born near the water would want to stick close to it.”

I smiled. “Sometimes on slow days at the shop, I’ll close up for lunch and head for the levee near the park. I just sit and watch the barges go up and down the river.”