The Hideaway

“I don’t know. I’m wondering if this place played a role in her life before I was born. Maybe even before my mom was born. I feel like I’m trying to put a puzzle together without all the pieces.”

“Isn’t that always the case? Especially with grandparents,” he said.

“Maybe so.”

“We tend to know a lot about our parents’ lives, but our grandparents? The big events of their lives happened long before we were born. By the time we’re old enough to be curious about what made them who they are, they’re old and forgetful. Or not even around anymore.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

“My grandfather died when I was ten. I was sad when he died, but the sadness passed, as everything does when you’re that young. It wasn’t until much later, after college even, that I began to wonder more about his early life. But by then, I’d long missed any chance to ask questions.”

“That sounds about right.” I thought of the ring and jumbled note from the mystery William. One part of it stuck out to me more than the rest—something about a choice. And that it was the right one. It was similar to the postcard from Mags’s mother, which I still knew nothing about. I wanted to know what the stakes had been. What effect did this choice have on Mags’s life? Her mother and William were of the opinion that it was the right choice. Did Mags think so?

And why couldn’t I have found these bits of information while Mags was still alive? But I knew the answer. Everything I needed to know—including Mags—had been right in front of me my whole life. I just never chose to look.

“I think Mags may have dealt with a lot more in her life than I ever gave her credit for. I always knew she was self-sufficient and determined, but I never gave much thought to what made her that way. The kicker is I had almost thirty years to ask questions, and now, like you said, I’ve missed my chance.”

“Maybe just the fact that you’re here matters, that you’re even trying to figure some things out. Not everyone would care. Most people would sell the big house they’d just inherited, make some money, and get back to real life.”

I shifted my legs. My “real” life in New Orleans had beckoned so loudly when I first arrived in Sweet Bay. It had been a siren call until I met Crawford. And Mags.

“But you’re still here,” he continued. “I bet that wouldn’t be a small thing to your grandmother. It’s definitely not a small thing to me.” He tucked my hair behind my ear and traced my cheek and jaw with the back of his fingers. “This thing with us has . . . well, it’s caught me by surprise.” He laughed a little. “I wasn’t expecting someone like you to show up in my life.”

“Someone like me?” I smiled. “I can’t tell if that’s good or bad.”

“It’s good. I know you have a life—not to mention a business—to get back to, but for some reason, I’m not worried about that. Am I crazy, or do you feel the same way?”

“You’re not crazy.” We sat near enough that his leg pressed against mine. His warm breath was so close and the wall around me was falling down, brick by brick.

He traced long strokes down my arms with his fingers, and my skin prickled in response. When his lips met mine, something inside me landed. I hadn’t been aware that part of me hung loose and disconnected, but now it slipped into place, anchored and safe. The heat that started in my belly flooded my brain and escaped into the air, becoming part of the water, the sky, and the sunshine.

Crawford forgot about any work he had to do at The Hideaway, or anywhere else for that matter. We stayed on the beach all afternoon, our only company the occasional skittering sand crab or stilt-legged heron. Only when the sun began to descend did we shake the sand off the drop cloth and make our way back.

27

SARA

JUNE

The workers were packing up for the day when we arrived back at the house from our trip to the mystery beach. Crawford stayed a bit, going over checklists with the workers and double-checking the position of recessed can lights planned for the kitchen ceiling. After he left, I took a glass of wine out to the garden and sat on Mags’s bench. The evening air felt cool on my skin, which was still a little pink from our afternoon in the sun.

I’d been there a few minutes when the screen door slammed on the back porch. I turned to see Dot strolling across the yard toward me.

“Good heavens, from behind you look just like a young Mags sitting out here on this bench.”

“I do?”

She nodded. “You sure do. Except that smile on your face is brighter than a lightbulb.” She sat next to me. “I could see it even with your back turned.”

I bit my lips, trying to wipe away the smile.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You have permission to be happy with that boy. He seems like a good one.”

I nodded. “I think he is.”

“Did the two of you have a nice afternoon? You were gone when Glory and I got home.”

“We took a drive. Have you ever noticed that big map on the wall in the front parlor?”

“Of course. It’s been there for decades. Why do you ask?”

“I noticed a hole in it today—a place near Sweet Bay that someone had marked with a thumbtack or something. And there was a little arrow drawn on it, pointing toward the hole.”

“What in the world? I’ve never noticed that.”

“I saw it when I was taking the pictures off the wall. Crawford and I drove out to the spot to see what was there. Or at least, I think we were in the right place.”

“What was there?” she asked.

“Nothing more than sand, grass, and water. It’s beautiful though. I’d love to know what was so important about that little cove.”

Cove. The word triggered a memory. Someone else had used that term, but I couldn’t remember who it was.

“You think it was Mags who marked it?” Dot asked.

“Maybe,” I said, my mind in high gear. All afternoon, I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that the stretch of beach was more than just empty sand. Something about the seclusion and the barrenness of it felt significant.

We sat in silence a few moments. I was about to ask Dot again about the postcard I’d found, but she spoke first. Her voice trembled in a way I’d never heard from her.

“Now that we’re alone, I have something I need to tell you.” She paused before continuing. “I’ve held it in a long time out of respect for Mags, but with her gone, I think I’m the last person around who can tell you the truth.”

I exhaled. “I have some questions too, but you go first.”

She smiled. “I told you earlier you reminded me of Mags sitting here on this bench. I came out here one day, a long, long time ago, and found her crying. She wasn’t making a big deal about it, no drama, just big tears making tracks down her face and dripping onto her shirt.”

“What was she crying about?”

“Did Mags ever say anything to you about a man named William?”

My heart started to pound. “No, she didn’t, but there was a note . . .”

That was it. William was the one who mentioned the cove. It was in the note he wrote to Mags: “in the cove, just as we planned.” I still didn’t know what it meant, but at least it validated my feelings about the place.