The Hideaway

I nodded.

“Mags wasn’t that kind of woman. I was her best friend and she didn’t even give me all the details. She told me a little, but I had to string most of it together as best as I could. I think it was too hard for her to talk much about William.”

She paused for a minute. “William’s shadow followed her all those years. She never fully admitted it, but I could see it. Even as an older woman, his presence was still very much a part of her.”

“Those nights she’d sit in the garden . . .”

“Oh yes. William made her that bench. He made a lot of the pieces in this house. I’m not exactly sure which pieces, but I know he made some of them.” She squeezed my hand. “I’m not sure I answered any of your questions.”

“You did. Thank you.”

She padded away to the kitchen, leaving me in the parlor with the photos in my hand. I placed the photo book in the shoe box but stuck the two loose photos in my back pocket. Those were staying with me.

I continued my rummaging that afternoon. In the downstairs coat closet, I found a black leather jacket with laces on the arms and braided tassels hanging off the bottom. It had been pushed all the way to the back for who knows how long, hidden by more useful raincoats and light winter jackets. Allyn would snag something like this from a cluttered vintage shop and wear it until it fell apart.

I laid the jacket across the back of the couch and picked up my phone. He answered on the first ring. “Bits and Pieces, how may I help you?”

“It’s me.”

“Hello, you.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Checking up on me?”

“Nope, just calling to check in. I’m following your orders.”

“We’re doing fine. I got that order of linen pillows we ordered months ago. They got a piece of my mind, and we got a 10 percent discount on our next order.”

“Good for you. Go ahead and call—”

“I’m all over it. Mrs. McMurphy has already picked them up. I can’t talk long, but fill me in. How’s it going with Mr. Sexy?”

“It’s Crawford. And he’s wonderful.” I couldn’t say it without smiling.

“Mm-hmm. I know that voice. You’re happy.”

“So what? I’m always happy.”

“Not like this, you’re not. So you two have been out again?”

“We’re not exactly going out. He’s just spending a lot of time at the house. After work.”

“You scandalous woman! Sneaking around with the boss after hours.”

“He’s not my boss. I hired him.”

“Even better. Sneaking around with a hired hand. I love it.”

“Allyn, I love you, but you’re making this sound dirty.”

“Of course I am. I’m happy you’ve found someone. Now don’t screw it up. And before you get all testy, I just mean don’t let your head into the game too much. That’s when you start to back off. Let it go and see what happens.”

“That’s my plan.” I could hear commotion in the background, so I hurried. “I’ve found some of Mags’s things in the house as I’ve been cleaning out.”

“What kind—? Oh, hang on a sec.”

I waited while Allyn answered a customer’s question. I could hear the soft hum of voices in the shop, the tinkling of Allyn’s music of the day coming from the speakers. Things were just fine, as he’d said.

“I need to run,” he said when he picked up the phone. “Barb here is interested in the sofa.”

“The sofa?” I asked. Over the winter, I’d refinished a Victorian-style sofa from the 1800s with curved walnut arms and a tufted back. It was in mint condition and the most expensive item in the shop.

“That’s the one. I’ll let you know how it goes. But I do want to hear about Mags. We’ll talk soon.”

With a click, he was gone. I put the phone down on the desk and sighed. My presence at Bits and Pieces wasn’t as necessary as I’d thought. Everything was running like clockwork even in my absence.

32

SARA

JULY

I’d just sat down on the front porch after dragging a trash can to the road when a car approached. The small blue sedan came to a stop in the middle of the driveway. I couldn’t see the driver’s face through the shadows of the trees overhead.

The man who eased out of the car had a full head of thick white hair under a plaid cap, and he stretched each leg out in front of him as if relieving them of stiffness. I’d seen that same white hair and plaid cap in my rearview mirror when I drove away from Mags’s grave. When the man stepped away from his car and turned toward me, I knew. This was William.

He shuffled to the bottom of the porch steps. I would have spoken first had my mouth—my brain—not been so empty of words. My heart thudded when he finally spoke.

“My name is William Cartright. I’m looking for—well, I’m not sure what. Is this . . . are you . . . ?”

“I’m Sara Jenkins. This is The Hideaway.”

He nodded and looked up at the house. “I couldn’t forget this place,” he said, before turning to me again. “I was . . . I knew Mag—Margaret—Van Buren. It was a long time ago. I read her obituary in the newspaper. It took me a while to get up the nerve to come back here.” He ran a hand across his stubbly cheek.

It was hard to speak over the lump in my throat, full of both affection and sadness. “I’m her granddaughter.” My voice broke, but he was so caught in his memory I wasn’t sure if he noticed. I swiped my finger under my eyes.

He offered a small smile. “I thought you might be. You look a lot like she did. The paper said her one survivor was a granddaughter, but I didn’t think I’d have the luck to run into you. I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but would you have a few minutes to talk to me?”

I gestured to the rocking chair next to me, and William began the climb up the steps. When he settled into the chair, he took a breath and seemed to relax a little. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Even in his old age, it was obvious he had been handsome once. He had an angular jaw and chocolate-brown eyes framed by still-full lashes. I tried to imagine him with hair to his shoulders, as it had been in the photo of him at the cove. His hands—large, dotted in age spots, and mottled with purple veins—pulled at the zipper of his jacket. They were strong, useful hands.

“Thank you for talking to me. You probably haven’t even heard my name.” William ran his hand over a small Band-Aid on his chin. A dot of blood showed through the bandage right in the center, as if he’d nicked himself shaving.

“I have,” I said quietly. I didn’t know how much to tell, so I went with the truth. “I found a note you wrote to Mags.”

He raised his eyebrows and gave a slow nod but didn’t speak.

“It was in pieces in a box with some old photos and a few other things. I didn’t understand what it meant—I still don’t, really—but I’ve been piecing bits together. Mags’s best friend Dot still lives here. She’s told me what she knows.”

I wasn’t ready to mention the biggest fact I’d discovered—that William was my grandfather. It was still outlandish to me, and I suspected it would be even more so to him if he didn’t know, and according to Dot, he didn’t.