The Hideaway

“Have fun with Crawford. Call me soon and give me more details. Or better yet, maybe I’ll pop over there for a visit soon.”

We hung up and I stared at the dark screen before dropping the phone on the couch. I tried to keep my mind from drifting to all I was missing at the shop as I scanned the wall across from me. Several small prints still hung on the wall along with a huge map framed in wood trim with no glass. I stood and walked over to take them down and place them with the others, but the map was too big for me to carry. Closer up, I could see it showed the Eastern Shore of Mobile Bay from Fort Morgan all the way up to the Tensaw River Delta. I scanned the shoreline, taking in the familiar towns, rivers, and bays. My eye stopped at a tiny hole pricked into the map, just south of Sweet Bay. Probably from a thumbtack.

But something else was there. A small hand-drawn arrow pointed at the little hole. I quickly scanned the rest of the map for other holes or marks, but it was clear.

The map showed no specific town or park at the marked spot, just a stretch of green along the shore where Sweet Bay met Mobile Bay. I tried to visualize that area but came up blank. The restaurant where Crawford had taken me on our first date was near there—we must have passed right by that point, but nothing stuck out in my mind as particularly noteworthy.

But it must have been important to someone.

It could be nothing—just a piece of real estate someone was interested in at one time or maybe a prime fishing location.

I chewed on the end of a fingernail and stared at the map.

Since finding the box in the attic and learning about Mags’s previous life of privilege, I was curious about her in a way I had never been before. It seemed like everything I found in the house was part of the mystery of Mags. I’d always taken for granted that she was exactly who she appeared to be and nothing more, but I was beginning to see there had been much more to her beneath the surface.

I headed toward the kitchen to find someone who might be able to help. Dot and Glory were out for the afternoon, but I thought Bert or Major might be around somewhere. A quick trip through the first floor and a call up the stairs from the landing proved me wrong. The only other person in the house was a man kneeling on the floor in the upstairs hallway, patching a spot on the wall with Spackle and singing along with the radio.

Then the front door opened and Crawford breezed in, a binder of paint chips under his arm and his cell pressed to his ear. I hadn’t realized how dusty and quiet the air in the house was until the open door ushered in a wave of fresh air tinged with the smell of new blossoms and freshly cut wood.

I stopped where I was on the bottom step and smiled. He finished his phone call and looked up at me, returning my smile.

“You look happy,” he said.

“It’s a good day.” I motioned for him to follow me, then showed him into the room where I’d found the map. “What do you make of this?”

He stepped closer and squinted. “It’s a map of Mobile Bay and Baldwin County. Why?”

“No, not the map itself. Look at this little hole.” I pointed to the spot marked by the arrow. “What do you think that is?”

“Hmm. Sure looks like someone wanted to remember this place.” He scratched at the faint stubble on his chin. “I think I may know where this is. I could take you there sometime if you want.”

I looked at my wrist, but I hadn’t worn my watch in weeks. “You couldn’t—you don’t have time to take a drive now, do you?”

“With you? Absolutely. Let me just drop this stuff off in the kitchen.”

A few minutes later, I walked with him toward his truck, then stopped. “Wait, don’t we need to bring the map? I may be able to get it out of the frame.”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry about the map. I can find my way there.”

All I knew was the spot was just south of where the two bays met, but Crawford seemed to know exactly where to go.

“I know most of the landowners around the mouth of Sweet Bay, but I’ve always wondered about this one stretch of empty land. It’s not marked from the road, just a long, twisting driveway like all the others.” He peered through the trees on either side of the road as we drove.

He’d taken my hand as we pulled away from the house, and it was still wrapped in his. His hand was sturdy and warm, and I liked the sensation that our hands fit together like two paired objects that had found their way back together again.

“It’s hard to believe there’s still undeveloped land around here,” he said. “Most people wouldn’t dream of letting a coveted piece of property by the bay sit empty, you know?” He slowed as he approached a dirt road leading toward the water. “I think this is it.”

We went around one bend, then another. Finally, the tree-covered dirt path, just wide enough to accommodate Crawford’s truck, opened up into an inlet of some sort, protected on three sides by craggy old oak trees. Spanish moss draped across low-hanging limbs.

The place was more than undeveloped—nothing marred the mix of sand and grass except a pair of seagulls picking through a clump of wet seagrass next to the shoreline. The sun shone overhead and reflected off the water, a brilliant prism. I pulled my sunglasses down from the top of my head.

Crawford parked the truck along the path and we stepped out into the soft sand. I tossed my sandals on the floorboard before I closed the door.

“I can’t believe no one has built here,” he said as we picked our way through the prickly grass and then sand to the water’s edge. “It’s gorgeous. I don’t know anywhere else around here that’s so private and tucked away like this. The owners probably field offers left and right from people wanting to buy.”

“If they haven’t wanted to build, I wonder why they haven’t given in and sold it. They’d make a fortune.”

“Who knows? Maybe some things are still more important than money.” He turned and walked back toward his truck. “Maybe they’re hanging on to it for a reason,” he called over his shoulder.

He opened the passenger side door and pulled out a drop cloth from behind the seat. Back on the sand, he spread it out next to me as a makeshift blanket.

“So what’s the deal with the map?” he asked. “Was this the first time you’d seen it?”

I shook my head. “I vaguely remember seeing it on the wall when I lived at the house, but I never paid much attention. I was taking pictures down earlier today when I noticed the little hole and the arrow.”

“If this is the right place, it makes sense someone would want to remember it. It could be a great private retreat. And it’s off the main roads—you have to know where you’re going to get here.”

I ran my fingers through the sand next to me. If this even was the right place, had Mags been the one to mark the location on the map? So many other people had come through The Hideaway’s doors over the years, that map could have belonged to anyone. But the place where it hung—centered on the wall and directly across the room from the couch—made me think she put it there so she could keep an eye on it, like a tiny speck on a map could get up and walk out of her life.

As if reading my mind, Crawford asked, “Do you think this has anything to do with your grandmother?”

I inhaled and blew the air out slowly. Maybe I was reminiscing about things so long forgotten they didn’t even matter anymore. Mags was gone, and whoever else knew anything about this stretch along the bay was probably long gone too.