The Hideaway

“You only like that game because you cheat,” Major said as Bert set up the board and divvied up the silver game pieces.

“I don’t cheat,” Bert said, aghast. “Is it even possible to cheat at Monopoly?”

“If there’s a way, you’ll find it, I’m sure.”

“Major,” Glory said. “That’s enough. No one cheats. You’re just not very good. But that doesn’t mean you can’t close your mouth and indulge the rest of us.”

We were an hour into the game when a car pulled up out front. Dot lifted a corner of the window curtain and peered into the dark night. “It’s a truck. Let’s see, it’s black . . . the door is opening now. It looks like a man . . .”

“Thanks for the play by play,” I said, hiding a smile. “I think it’s Crawford.”

“Oh heavens. My hair’s a mess.” Glory shot like a dart toward the stairs.

“Wait, Glory, you don’t have to go,” I said. “Crawford probably won’t even notice your hair.”

“Well, why not?” she asked from the bottom stair. “It’s a new color and I think it’s quite lovely.” Dot joined her on the stairs.

I opened the door so Crawford could see their frantic exits.

“Where’s everyone going?” he asked.

“I have no idea.”

“We’re old and in the way,” Bert said. “You two don’t need us cluttering up your evening.” He stood from his place on the couch next to Major. “Come on, Major.”

Major didn’t budge. “I don’t see why I have to get up and ruin a perfectly good lead in Monopoly just because this young fella decides to show up.”

“Don’t quit on my account,” Crawford said. “I’ll just join in.”

Major narrowed his eyes.

“Or sit and watch,” Crawford said.

“Don’t you worry a thing about it,” Bert said. “We’ll continue our game another time. Major, you’re coming with me.” Bert bumped Major’s outstretched legs with his knee, urging him to get a move on.

Major grumbled and stood. “All right, all right, I’ll go, but I don’t like it.”

We watched helplessly from the front door until the room was empty and quiet. Crawford started laughing, then I did too, relieved that everyone’s swift escape hadn’t rendered the evening too awkward.

“What do you say?” He gestured to the game still spread out on the coffee table. “I’ve been known to win a game of Monopoly.”

“You’re on.”

He settled down on one side of the table and waited for me.

Getting involved with a man in Sweet Bay was the last thing on my mind when I left New Orleans. In fact, I was almost embarrassed at the thought of telling Allyn about Crawford—not because anything about him was even remotely embarrassing, but because I’d been so focused on doing what needed to be done in Sweet Bay, then getting back to New Orleans.

Now not only had I met someone, but I actually craved his company. More than that, I missed him every time he closed the door and walked away from me.

“Well?” He patted the floor next to him.

We picked up the game where the rest of us had left off. Crawford took over Major’s spot in the lead. Amid conversation, walking through the house to look at odd mementos and souvenirs, and occasional game playing, I beat him by five thousand dollars and three hotels.

23

MAGS

MAY 1960

I let Robert move into The Hideaway. Maybe it was the shock of William leaving. I actually preferred to think that was it and not that I was still able to be swayed by my parents’ wishes for my life. Whatever it was, I agreed to my father’s plan to keep us together—although I knew it would only be an illusion. I did put my foot down at the idea of returning to our home in Mobile. It was out of the question. If they wanted us to have the look of a happy marriage, he had to come here, because I wasn’t leaving.

The day he moved in, I sat him down in the living room when everyone else was out.

“Margaret—”

“It’s Mags.” I hadn’t planned that, but it worked. I was no longer Margaret, but I also couldn’t bear to hear William’s nickname for me coming from Robert’s mouth. I shortened it to the least proper thing I could come up with on the spot.

“Mags?” He laughed, then went silent when he saw my face.

“Don’t speak. If you’re going to live here, we will have rules.”

He nodded and waited, a grin still struggling to escape his lips.

“First, you are never to mention AnnaBelle’s name. Or any other woman you may have . . . met . . . since we married. I won’t have the guests in this house thinking I am a ridiculous woman for taking you in. They know nothing about you or where you’ve been. They’ll believe me when I tell them you’ve been away on business. Because that is where you’ve been, right?”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Marg—”

I held a hand up.

“Two, you are not to ask any questions about how I’ve spent my time since I’ve been gone. Not a word of it. It is mine and mine alone. Three, you’ll have your own bedroom and I’ll have mine.”

“Wait a minute, you mean to say I’m sleeping alone every night? When my wife is in the same house?”

“I’m your wife in name only. I know how this works—it benefits both our families for this marriage to work out. Or at least look that way. I’ll hold up my end of the bargain, but don’t expect me to forget everything that’s happened. And not just AnnaBelle. All of them. For all three years.”

He drummed his fingers on the armrest.

Suddenly exhausted, I sat in the chair behind me. I sighed and rubbed my temples with my fingers. “Also, I’m pregnant,” I said with my eyes closed. “If this is a problem, you can go ahead and leave.”

I’d known for a few weeks—ever since I vomited in the kitchen sink one morning not long after William left. I’d just reached for my usual cup of coffee, but the smell left me reeling and retching into the sink.

Starla’s eyes had widened as she handed me a dish towel. “Gary had it last week.” She backed away from me. “I can’t get sick—I have yoga to teach. Sorry. Let me know if you need anything.” She hurried for the door of the kitchen.

“I don’t think—” I began.

“Oh, you have the bug, all right. Either that, or you’re pregnant.”

I was carrying William’s child. It was both perfect and absurd. Laughable and heartbreaking.

Robert fired back at me. “So you skewer me for my indiscretions when—”

I shook my head. “You have the option to leave. Believe me, the door is wide open.”

He stared at me, his jaw clenching. “Okay, I won’t ask. You’re right—I have no right to do that. You’re my wife. I’ll help take care of you while you’re . . . sick . . . unwell. Whatever happens when you’re carrying a baby.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “You don’t have the first clue what to do around a pregnant woman.”

“I’ve taken care of wounded soldiers on the battlefield with bullets whizzing two feet past my head. I think I can handle a vomiting housewife.”

“We’ll see about that. And just so we’re clear, you are the convalescing housewife in this situation. I have a house to run.”