The Hideaway

“That’s more like it.”

“It sounds strange, but I usually end up closing my eyes and pretending I’m back on the dock at The Hideaway, the sun dancing on the water. No sound except the wind in the trees and the water lapping up against the dock. But then I’ll hear a tugboat horn or smell someone’s crawfish boil and I’m back in New Orleans.”

I’d never told anyone about my Hideaway daydreams—especially not Allyn. He’d work his own brand of psychoanalysis on me, and I had no time for that.

It took me a second to realize Crawford was studying me, smiling.

“What?” I lifted my hand to check my face and hair.

“Nothing. You just look exceptionally relaxed. And beautiful. Like a picture in a magazine.”

“Oh, come on now.” I looked up at the waiter who appeared at just the right moment, providing distraction from Crawford’s compliments.

We placed drink and appetizer orders and sat back to watch the sun dipping toward the horizon. On the other side of the deck, a man with a ponytail and dark sunglasses set up his guitar and a couple of speakers. Around us, couples and small groups filled the tables, as if everyone in Sweet Bay recognized the perfection of this South Alabama evening.

With fried crab claws and cocktail sauce on the table in front of us, we dug into both the food and typical first-date chitchat. Instead of boring, it was comfortable, fun even—a stark contrast to most of the first dates I’d been on with lawyers and businessmen in New Orleans. We talked about our childhoods and professional lives, dream vacations and things we’d do for a million dollars. I told him about Allyn and asked him about his partnership with Charlie.

“I knew Charlie in college. He was always the guy drinking too much at parties and ripping his shirt off at football games. You can see it, can’t you?” Crawford said when I laughed. “We ran into each other down here a few years after we graduated. I had a lot of jobs going on at once, and I needed someone to man the office while I was out on-site. I hired him just hoping he wouldn’t burn the place down, but he’s been great.”

He looked down at the table for a second. “He took over for me when I needed to bow out for a little bit. He’s a true friend, and I don’t take that lightly. He’d have to mess up pretty badly for me to let him go. Even then, I don’t think I could do it.”

“He must have really saved you.”

He nodded but didn’t offer any more, so I didn’t ask.

“Tell me about your parents,” I said. “You said they worked on your house a lot while you were growing up.”

He smiled. “They were DIYers in the truest sense of the word. They never wanted to buy anything they could grow, build, or create on their own. It was annoying as a kid and embarrassing as a teenager, but now I appreciate it. They made me want to do things for myself rather than take the easy way out.”

“I’m guessing it’d be easier to build something from scratch on an empty piece of property rather than take something crumbling to pieces and try to turn it into a gem.”

“Exactly. And there’s nothing wrong with building new houses. We do it all the time. But I’d much rather take a house that already has a life and turn it into something beautiful. You encounter all kinds of problems you don’t have to deal with when you build new, but I get a lot more satisfaction at the end when I see something solid and real where before there had only been hope.”

Just as the waiter asked if we wanted to try dessert, a couple came up to our table. The man put his hand on Crawford’s shoulder. Crawford looked up.

“Peter, Janet,” he said, standing up. “Good to see both of you.”

“You are a lifesaver.” Peter shook Crawford’s hand. “In fact, it’s possible your little redo of our kitchen saved our marriage.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Crawford said.

“Oh yes,” Peter said. “My wife is wonderful, but even she won’t argue that she can be a handful at times.”

“It’s true,” Janet said. “And he’s right—our kitchen saved our marriage. Now I can fix my coffee and he can make his green-tofu-whatever smoothies, and we’re not bumping into each other the whole time. Crisis averted, thanks to you.”

While they caught up, I finished my wine and watched Crawford. He conversed easily with Peter and Janet as he reenacted having to calm their dog down when he arrived at their house early one morning. Peter clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him for not shooting the dog when it burst out of the gate. Crawford laughed.

Back in New Orleans, Mitch was always “on.” He was loud and overconfident in front of other people and never wanted to miss an opportunity to impress. Crawford put everyone—even dogs—at ease. Being with him was as easy as the tide going out.

Crawford turned to me and introduced me to his friends. Peter shook my hand while Janet eyed me up and down. “You’ve done well for yourself, young man,” Janet said to Crawford. “She’s very pretty.”

I swallowed and fumbled for a smile, but Crawford defused my embarrassment.

“She is—and she’s also a great client. She told me exactly what she wanted on the redo of her house. She practically did all the work before she even hired me. All I had to do was get the guys in and follow her orders.”

Peter laughed. “Sounds like she’d be a good one to keep around.” He winked at Crawford.

Crawford laughed and kept his gaze on Peter, but he wrapped his warm hand around mine and squeezed it gently.

“Now if you’ll excuse us”—Janet pulled on Peter’s arm—“my husband promised his handful of a wife a dance before we leave. Crawford, the next one is yours.” She winked at him as they wound through the tables to the open corner of the patio where others had gathered to dance. The man with the guitar had just started a slowed-down version of James Taylor’s “Country Road.”

“How about it?” Crawford held out his hand. He was confident in his own way, easy in his khakis and untucked button-down. I put my hand in his, and we found an open space away from the others. He put his other hand on my back and we began to move. The couples dancing, the waiters and tables, even the music all receded. It was only Crawford and me, the water behind us, and the sky, now dark except for a faint orange glow just over the horizon.

21

MAGS

MAY 1960

I didn’t say anything to William that day about Daddy showing up. He knew me well enough to know something was wrong, but thankfully, he didn’t press. The next day, I couldn’t keep it from him any longer. I didn’t like deceiving him, especially when it had the potential to destroy all the plans we’d made, however casual they may have been.

“William?” I sat in his workshop with him as he brushed long strokes of stain onto the armoire for Mr. Grimmerson. The earthy scent of newly cut boards tempered the sharp tang of turpentine in the air.

“Hmm?” He was concentrating on his work—eyebrows furrowed, brush moving evenly up and down the wood.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

His hands went still, then he grabbed a ragged bandanna he used as a hand towel and wiped the stain off his fingers. He knelt on the floor in front of me where I sat. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear the words.”