The Hideaway

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t have spoken if he’d asked me to.

“Let’s just discuss it later, okay?” He kissed me on the lips, then stood and went back to his work.

He didn’t show up for dinner that night or later when everyone gathered for a game of backgammon in the living room. I kept an eye on the door all night, not wanting to miss his entrance, but he never showed up.

I awoke at some dark hour of the night to William slipping into my bed and tucking his arms around me. I repositioned, fitting my body snugly against his. He touched my hair, smoothed it, tucked it behind my ear. He raised up on one elbow and traced the side of my face with a finger, then my neck, then my collarbone. He leaned down, kissed me on the cheek, and lay back down behind me. A breeze kicked up the curtain at the window, and a touch of fresh air caressed my face.

The next morning, he was gone. In his place on the bed next to me was an envelope with a note inside.

My dearest Maggie. I’m leaving now to save you the discomfort of having to explain yourself to me. Or maybe it’s to keep from hearing you say the words. But you are a good woman and this is the right choice for now. I’m not worried—I know our time will come. When it does, I hope you’ll wear this proudly on your finger. For then, you will be mine and I will be yours. We’ll spend our years in the cove, just as we planned.

Love,

William

Next to the note was a small blue box. I cracked it open. Inside was a perfect ring. A small, solitary, sparkling diamond on a simple gold band. I thought of the ring Robert had given me when he proposed: six diamonds clustered busily together on a gold filigree band. The comparison between the two, and the obvious perfection of the one that came from the man who understood the real me, would have been laughable had the moment not been so heartbreaking.

I threw the covers off and raced downstairs, still in my pajamas. Voices in the kitchen grew quiet as I hurried down the hall in my bare feet and slammed open the screen door on the porch. I crossed the grass to his workshop and found what I already suspected. All the wood was gone, all the tools. The only thing left in the room was an empty sandpaper box.

Back in the house, I bumped into Daisy. She’d been watching me from the back porch.

“I was up early this morning,” she said. “He was packing his truck before the sun came up. I didn’t ask where he was going. I assumed you’d know.”

I shook my head and turned toward the stairs. Back in my room, I crawled under the covers, my feet still wet from the grass. I laid my head on his pillow with his note clutched in my hands, trying to detect any of his scent. I stayed there the rest of the day.

22

SARA

JUNE

Crawford stopped by frequently after that first date, adding a sense of humor and order to the blur of paint fumes, trash bags, and plastic sheeting in the house. One afternoon, he showed up with the plumber to check on the sewer line in the backyard. When he parked his truck in the driveway, I was on the front porch in a rocking chair going through some of Mags’s mail, trying to decide what was junk and what was important.

“Do you have big plans for the morning?” Crawford asked, climbing the porch steps. When he got to the top, he walked over and squeezed my knee.

“Just deciding whether to go on a Caribbean Disney cruise or order this turbocharged commercial-grade juicer.” I held up two brochures from the stack of mail on my lap.

He laughed. “Mickey Mouse or spinach juice. That’s a tough call. Think I could pull you away from all this for a bit?”

“I think I could be convinced.”

“I need to go over a couple of things inside, but my next appointment isn’t until three. I could show you what I’ve been working on in my shop. If you’re still interested.”

“I’d love to.”

“Great,” he said, exhaling.

While he finished up in the house, I retreated to the blue room to find something to wear. When I’d left New Orleans two months before, I planned to spend a week in Sweet Bay and as such had packed mostly business casual clothes, appropriate for the funeral and meeting with the lawyer. I’d spent the last few weeks in running shorts and old fraternity T-shirts I’d found in the closet in my bedroom—not ideal attire for spending the day with someone I found increasingly charming.

I miraculously unearthed a clean pair of black capris and paired them with a thin sleeveless top. My only options for shoes were dressy sandals or heels. I opted for the black wedge flip-flops I found in the bottom of my closet. I twisted my curls up in a clip to ward off the humidity and hoped for the best.

Downstairs, Crawford was just finishing up. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, he looked up from the clipboard he and the electrician were poring over. He smiled and held up one finger. I nodded and slipped out to the front porch. He came out a few minutes later and gave a low whistle. “Quite a change from a few minutes ago.”

“What? With the house?”

He laughed. “No, you. You look great. Way too nice for a ride in my work truck.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse.”

He escorted me to the truck and opened my door. “After you.”

“My workshop’s not much,” he said on the way. “It’s really a glorified garage. And not that glorified, actually. But it gives me the space I need to work off some energy.”

“When I started refinishing furniture, I did it on the sidewalk in front of my apartment with a stack of old newspapers and a can of spray paint.”

“I bet your work space is a little more upscale now though.”

“Well, I don’t work on the sidewalk anymore, but it’s still not fancy. I have a small space at the back of my shop, but I still pull pieces out into the courtyard sometimes when I need more room to work.”

“I’d love to see your shop sometime,” he said. “And have a guided tour of New Orleans.”

He pulled off the highway at the sign for Coastal Contractors. The driveway was empty, and inside, the office was quiet. In the small kitchen area, Crawford pulled a small bone from a box under the sink. “For Popcorn.”

Opening the back door, he whistled a quick tune and the same black fur and wet tongue flew at us from the left. Crawford got down on a knee and scratched under the dog’s chin, then tossed the bone out into the yard. Popcorn leaped on it, wagging her tail. By the time we descended the creaky stairs leading down to the yard, Popcorn had settled in the grass, happily gnawing away. I leaned down and smoothed my hand down her soft head.

“Not much for dogs, right?” Crawford asked.

“They’re fine as long as they’re not directing their wet mouth at me.” I massaged Popcorn’s ears and snout, her fur soft as velvet. I stood and Crawford gestured to his shed. We crossed the small yard, and he pulled the door open for me.

Inside, the still air was laced with the scent of turpentine and fresh wood. “This smell is so familiar. When I was younger, there was an old shed off to the side of The Hideaway. It always smelled like this.”

I walked to the other side of the workshop, trailing my fingers across the top of his worktable. A couple of old doors were propped up along one wall and various electric saws and routers lined another. A bookshelf in the corner held how-to books mixed with well-worn paperbacks. He reached over and pulled a window open, allowing salt-scented air to trickle in.

He pointed out some of his unfinished work, then took me out to the dock and showed me the boathouse he was building for Charlie. The morning had been overcast, but the clouds were just beginning to part, letting bright sunshine peek through the haze. It was quiet on the dock, no sounds but the water lapping at the pilings and a sailboat at a neighboring dock creaking on its lines.