The Hideaway

I took a deep, cleansing breath. “Yes. Thanks for coming.”

“I want to be here. We have work to do. I can make some phone calls and see if we can dig up anything that would make Sammy rethink his decision. There has to be something.”

I nodded. Tears threatened to fall, so I turned away.

Crawford tipped my face back toward him. “It’s all going to be okay, whatever happens.”

“It almost feels like everything would have been better if I hadn’t come here. I fixed up the house and got everyone’s hopes up for a great future for the house. Now I’m letting them down.”

“You’re not the one letting them down. It all would’ve happened the same way whether you were here or not. But by coming back, you got to know your grandmother—the real one. And you’ve reconnected with the folks here in the house who love you like you’re their own granddaughter.”

“But the house and all our work . . .”

“Don’t give up on it yet. The Hideaway is a part of you,” he said. “It’s your past regardless of what Sammy tries to do. And who knows, it could even be a part of your future.” I nodded and he took my hand. “Now, let’s get to work.”

37

SARA

JULY

We spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon on the back porch, my laptop practically burning a hole in the cushioned ottoman and both of our cell phones buzzing with activity. While Crawford called friends in town he thought might be able to pull some strings, I researched eminent domain, property laws, and anything else I could think of that might give us a loophole. I even called Mitch.

“This isn’t really my thing,” he said when I told him the situation. “I mean, if you go to trial with it, I’m your guy, but I’m not sure I’m the right person to talk to about saving an old house.”

As he spoke, Crawford paced the back porch with his cell to his ear and a notebook in his hand, scrawling notes as he listened. He’d postponed a morning meeting and canceled plans to attend an important General Contractors Association meeting in Mobile.

“You know what? Don’t worry about it. I’m sure things here will be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Mitch asked. “I can probably ask around at the office and see if anyone is willing to take it on.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Crawford looked at me when I tossed my cell into the chair next to me.

“Was that a friend?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Just someone I thought might be able to help. Dead end.”

He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “That’s most of what I’ve gotten too. Don’t worry though, I still have a few people I can talk to.” He looked at his watch. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to run. Missing my morning meeting wasn’t a big deal, but I can’t put off Mrs. Webb. She’ll eat my apologies for dinner.”

I laughed. “You’ve done enough. Thank you.”

I walked him out and returned to my seat on the porch. Although the sun glinted off every shiny surface like a spotlight, without Crawford there to keep the sadness at bay, it crept back in. He seemed buoyed by the possibility of finding just the right loophole to fend off Sammy, but I wasn’t as confident. Sammy may have been harmless years before, but it was only because he’d been busy laying the groundwork for what was happening now. I was glad Mags wasn’t around to see it.

That evening, I found Dot at the dining room table. Bert puttered around in the kitchen behind her, putting away pots and pans from dinner.

“I’m turning in, girls,” he said when he stuck his head in the doorway. He crossed the room to kiss Dot on the cheek. “Don’t stay up too late, dear. We don’t have to work it all out tonight.”

Bert walked into the hallway and disappeared up the stairs. I looked at Dot.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “We’re just talking about our next steps.” She squeezed my hand. “It’s been a big couple of days for you. It’s a lot to digest.”

I sighed and shook my head. “I think I’ve hit my limit, for sure.”

“You’ll figure out what to do. You’re Mags’s granddaughter. You have spunk running deep in your veins.”

I bet William had some of that too. Maybe it came from both of them, their DNA mixing and marrying, passing on down the line to me.

Dot closed the magazine she’d been flipping through and pushed her chair back from the table. She stopped on her way out of the dining room. “I almost forgot to tell you. Bob Crowe called today.”

I shrugged. “Who?”

“Bob Crowe? The Roving Reporter? Honey, you have been gone too long. He breaks all the big stories. From the Mobile Press-Register?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a big deal for him to call.” She seemed disappointed that I didn’t hold him in the high esteem he obviously deserved. “He said he wanted to talk to you about The Hideaway. I wrote his number down—it’s by the coffeepot in the kitchen. Maybe he can help you with Sammy. That’s what he does—he finds dirt on people that no one knew was there.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of dirt on Sammy, but I don’t see what a reporter can do to fix this mess.”

“Just call him. See what he has to say.”

In lieu of responding, I smiled, which satisfied her.

After she left, I picked up a few stray mugs from the dining room and carried them into the kitchen, the weight of the last couple days bearing down hard on my shoulders. I made my way toward the stairs but stopped when I saw light coming from the reading room in the back of the house. I walked to the doorway and peeked in.

Glory was asleep on the couch, her legs propped up on an ottoman. Her glasses had slipped down her nose, and she held a half-empty mug of tea that tipped precariously. I reached over and took the cup from her hand, careful not to wake her. I picked up the magazine lying facedown on the cushion next to her and saw the title: Georgia Land and Real Estate. She’d underlined several houses for sale and made notes in the margins. Could make this work. Part-time job at the armory?

Everyone in the house was scrambling. I thought of what Crawford said earlier, that The Hideaway was in me—it was my past, maybe even my future. Something clicked and the heaviness in my brain and body receded for a moment.

I grabbed Bob’s phone number off the counter in the kitchen and took it upstairs with me. Before crawling into bed, I called and left a message at his office.

“Mr. Crowe, this is Sara Jenkins from The Hideaway. I’d like to talk.”

38

SARA

AUGUST

I woke a few days later to the sound of excited voices and footsteps in the downstairs hallway. The house didn’t usually have that kind of activity until at least midmorning when Bert would flip through recipes for the evening meal and Major would chide him for whatever choice he made.

I dressed quickly and headed for the noise, but the doorbell rang before I reached the first floor. As I crossed the foyer to the front door, I saw the newspaper lying on the console table. “A Sneaky Deal in Sweet Bay?” the headline blared. I smiled. Mr. Crowe must have done his job.

“I hope you don’t mind that I spoke to that reporter,” Mrs. Busbee said in a rush as soon as I pulled open the door. “I’ve got to get up to the diner, but I just had to talk to you first. When Mr. Crowe told me this place might be torn down because of Sammy, I couldn’t help myself. Who does he think we are? The Sunset Strip?” She shook her head and glanced at her watch. “I’d hate to see anything along this stretch of the bay except The Hideaway. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”