The Hideaway

He sat back in his chair and crossed his hands over his middle. “So Sammy is taking the house.”

I looked out at the water but kept an eye on William.

“Memory is a powerful thing,” he said. “My memories of Maggie have kept me going all these years even though I hadn’t seen the house, much less her, in decades. But the house isn’t the keeper of memories for me. Mine are up here.” He tapped his forehead. “You’re different though. Losing the house will be a bigger blow for you, I imagine.”

A year ago—six months ago even—losing the house probably wouldn’t have even registered on my radar. But now? Everything about this new, unexpected chapter of my life was tied to the house in some way. Losing it felt like losing a part of my body I’d just learned how to use.

After lunch, William drove me home. We made no immediate plans to see each other again, but I wasn’t worried. We had a lifetime of absence to make up for. I hugged him before I left his car, and he patted my cheek.

That night, long after Dot and the others had gone to bed, I walked through the house, dark except for the light in the kitchen. In the downstairs hallway, I paused in front of Mags’s bedroom door. Dot and Glory had done a little cleaning out, taking bags of odds and ends to Goodwill and Sweet Bay United Methodist for their annual rummage sale. They told me they were leaving Mags’s clothes and personal belongings for me to go through.

I turned the knob and the door creaked open. I’d requested that Mags’s room be the last one to undergo renovation, so everything looked as it always had—single bed pushed up against one wall, a dresser along the opposite wall, chair and ottoman in one corner. Her vanity sat under the window that overlooked the backyard and the bay. I turned on a lamp and sat on the small stool in front of the mirror. A pot of Pond’s cold cream sat on top next to a tube of Jergens lotion, a couple prescription bottles, and an old, silverhandled hairbrush. I twisted the top off the Pond’s and inhaled. It was Mags’s scent. Granted, the scent was usually mixed with something else—dirt, brackish water, motor oil—but the Pond’s was always underneath.

The top drawer of the vanity held a variety of hairpins, travel-size shampoo bottles, a box of needles, and small spools of thread. In the middle of all these trivial items, a pearl necklace gleamed in the lamplight. I smiled. Most people would have wrapped something like this in tissue and protected it in a jewelry box, but not Mags. She just dropped it in with everything else.

The bottom drawer appeared to be empty, but when I pushed it closed, I heard something inside skid across the wood. I pulled the drawer back open and leaned down to peer in. Way at the back was an envelope. I reached in and pulled it out. My mother’s name was written on the front. I turned the envelope over—it was still sealed, never opened.

I moved my fingers over the envelope and felt a folded piece of paper inside. It wasn’t for me, but it had been for my mom, and for some reason, she’d never read it. Should I?

I slid my finger under the flap and opened the letter.

My dear Jenny,

As I write this, you are a lovable nine-year-old running around the beach with salty air in your face. The thought of telling you what I’m about to share on paper is unfathomable—that’s why I plan to give this to you when you’re much older. Hopefully by then you’ll be able to better understand the complexity of the human heart and how it can clutch both hope and pain in the same tight fist.

Up until now, you’ve been told that your father, Robert, died of a heart attack years ago when you were a toddler. It is true that a man named Robert Van Buren died when you were three, and of a heart attack, but this man was not your father . . .

When I finished the letter, I ran my fingers across my mom’s name on the front of the envelope. Then I wiped my cheeks and replaced the letter inside. It was late, and I was tired, but instead of going upstairs, I lay down on Mags’s bed. I slid the envelope under the pillow and closed my eyes.

42

SARA

AUGUST

Despite the signs and pleas from Sweet Bay, Sammy and Mayor McClain did not relent. The mayor sent a firm but apologetic note explaining that we would be compensated for the value of the house, which none of us cared about. Sammy showed up on the doorstep two days later with a court order in his hands.

“You have thirty days to vacate the premises. You don’t want to be here after that.”

He backed down the steps and walked to his car, but he stopped before he opened the door. “Miss Jenkins, this doesn’t have to be all that bad. You’ll get on back to New Orleans and go about your business. I’ll set things in motion here and move on to my next acquisition.” He opened his car door and sat down. “Life goes on.”

Later that evening, hours after Sammy had dropped off his court order like an unwanted fruitcake, the five of us sat in the living room together.

“I’m proud of you,” Dot said. “You turned this house into something magnificent, which is exactly what Mags wanted. You should be proud of yourself too.”

“What are you going to do?” I held a mug of Lady Grey tea, but it had long grown cold.

“We’re moving down to Florida,” she said. “We should have done it years ago. If you’d told me when I first moved in here that I’d outlive Mags and still be here at this age, I’d have told you to go jump in the bay. This place gave us a wonderful life, but everyone has to join the real world sometime . . .” She paused and shook the ice cubes in the bottom of her glass. “I suppose our time has come. Almost fifty years later.”

“Just like that?” I asked. “It’s such a quick change.”

Dot looked at Bert and he nodded. “It’s not so quick,” she said. “We’ve talked about it off and on for years, but just never put the plan in motion. But it’s time now. And we’re okay with it. Don’t worry about us.” I thought I heard a wobble in her voice, but her face remained calm, almost cheerful.

“What about you?” I searched Glory’s face for any indication of panic or sadness. If I’d seen even a hint, I’d have crumbled.

“Major and I have had our eye on some property back in Georgia for a while. It’s still on the market, so I think we’ll put up a nice little house and dig in roots. We may even try our hand at farming.”

“Farming?” Major laughed. “A trendy chicken coop is not a farm, my dear.”

“We’ll start there and see what happens.” Glory winked in my direction.

“Your turn,” Dot said. “What’s next for you? For a little while, we thought you might stick around here.” She glanced at Bert. “We weren’t sure at first, but it seemed like you and Crawford . . .”

“What she’s trying to say is it was nice to see some young love under the roof again,” Bert said. “And he seems like a gentleman. Knows how to treat a lady. That goes far in my book.”

“I’m sure she can rest easy knowing she has your approval,” Dot said. “Crawford put a lot of work into this house. He must be devastated that it’s all going to be for naught. How is he handling everything?”

My mind went back to something he’d said in the dining room the day the newspaper article came out. We’d finished breakfast and he was about to leave.

“Most of the houses I work on are just jobs to me,” he’d said. “Occasionally I get asked to work on some great old house and it becomes more important, but when I finish the job, I move on to the next one without a hitch. This one was different from the start.”