The Hideaway

“That’s probably because you had your eye on the owner before you even saw the house,” I said.

“I got lucky. I heard she almost went with Earl and his overalls.” He smiled. “The thing is, I’ve come to love the house too. When I first saw it, I loved that you weren’t taking the easy road and unloading it as quickly as possible, which probably would have put it right into the hands of someone like Sammy. Yet here we are staring demolition in the face.” He ran his hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in tufts, and leaned toward me, his elbows on his knees. “Regardless of the house, you come first. I can find another old house to fix up, but I don’t want to lose you.”

Dot looked at me, still waiting for an answer. Crawford was so kind and good. He’d probably never left anyone in the dust, as I had with Mags. He wouldn’t know how to do that. I shook my head and answered the question she hadn’t asked. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

In the last weeks, I spent as much time as I could soaking up the essence of the house and Mags—I walked down the long, curved driveway, watched the sunset from the dock, rocked on the porch, and sat in Mags’s bedroom. I wanted to pack up the memories and take them with me, even if only in my mind.

My last night in the house, I found myself in the garden at dusk. Cicadas serenaded me from their hidden places as I sat on Mags’s bench, my fingers automatically finding the skeleton key on the underside. A light breeze blew in from the south, the sky darkened to a range of purples and pinks, and I let my tears fall without holding them back.

I stayed in the garden long after darkness fell, covering everything like a warm, thick blanket. Sometime later, the screen door creaked open. “Sara, honey?” Dot asked. “You okay out there?”

I pulled myself up off the bench and took one last look around. In the dark, everything was a little out of focus. I saw myself as a child, scrambling through the garden, trying to snatch up as many strawberries as I could before Mags came around with her basket. Then as a teenager, sitting next to Mags on the bench, not understanding why she came out here every night in the dark to do nothing but think. Then me at eighteen, packing my suitcases and pulling away from The Hideaway, leaving a smiling, waving Mags behind.

It seemed everywhere I looked—every surface I touched, every sound I heard—reminded me of how I’d misunderstood perhaps the bravest woman I’d ever known. With my mind and heart full to overflowing, I turned and left the garden.

The next morning, I stood in the driveway packing and repacking the trunk of my car. It all fit fine, but I kept rearranging items so I wouldn’t have to look Crawford in the face. Everything William had made, and as many other pieces as we could haul, sat in a storage facility in Fairhope. The box containing Mags’s most precious items sat up front on the passenger seat.

Finally, Crawford put his hand on my arm. “I think it’s fine.” His voice cut through the quiet.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, but the sun shone brightly. I exhaled and leaned my forehead on his chest. He wrapped his arms around my back and his hands went to my hair, lifting the curls off my neck. I raised my face toward him and he pressed his palms to my cheeks.

“I’ll miss you,” he said.

I nodded, not trusting my voice to speak.

“I’m going to give you some time to get back in the swing of things at work. Pull Allyn back in line, get your shop in order, whatever you need to do. I’m not going to bother you, but if you decide you want me there, I’ll hop in the truck that minute. I mean it. I’ll even bring Popcorn if you want.”

“I don’t need Popcorn.” I leaned my cheek on his chest. “Besides, who would take care of Charlie while you’re gone?”

“Good point.”

We were both quiet, then he cleared his throat. “I could say so many things right now, but I’m not going to. You know how I feel about you, and I think I know how you feel about me.”

“You think?”

He sighed. “I can’t help but think if you felt the way I do, you wouldn’t be about to drive back to New Orleans.”

He’s right. What am I doing?

“But my shop, everything . . .”

His shoulders tensed.

I closed my eyes to keep the tears from falling.

I want my life to be here. I’m more me here than I’ve ever felt before. My life has changed and it’s because of you and Mags and this place. I wanted to say it, but I couldn’t push the words out of my mouth.

Crawford squeezed my shoulders and I turned to open my car door. I didn’t want to hurry away from him, but I needed the silence of my car to let my emotions go. I could feel another storm coming—it was lodged somewhere in my throat—and I preferred that it happen in private.

I faced him for one last good-bye. His now-familiar smell of cedar and fresh laundry, and something else vague but distinctly Crawford, filled my senses and muddied my thoughts. His lips were warm and soft, his faint stubble tickling my skin. I put my hand to his face and turned to climb in. He leaned down to the open window.

“Sara? Please don’t wait too long.”

43

SARA

SEPTEMBER

Later that day, I opened the door to Bits and Pieces and inhaled the familiar scent of gardenia. I walked through the shop, running my fingers across chair backs, plump down pillows, and dustless tabletops. Allyn had been hard at work.

I walked behind the counter into our makeshift office. Allyn was hunched over the laptop with his head in his hands. The glow from the screen made his face appear pale and sickly.

“Hey,” I said.

Allyn jumped, almost toppling his can of LaCroix on the table. “I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve been trying to figure out all this QuickBooks stuff. Couldn’t you just use a notebook and a calculator?”

He nudged a chair out to me with the toe of his boot. I sank into it. “So, you’re back,” he said.

“I’m back.” I laid my head down on the table in front of me. He patted my shoulder, then reached into the mini fridge and pulled out a beer.

“It’s only two o’clock. Is this what you’ve been doing since I’ve been gone?”

“Calm down, Boss. It’s not for me.”

He opened the bottle and handed it to me. I hesitated, then took a long swallow.

“William?” he asked.

“He’s back home in Still Pond, swimming in all the memories I dredged up for him. He wants me to come visit him one day.” I smiled. “He still makes furniture, you know.”

Allyn nodded. “Maybe you can sell some here.”

I pushed back from the table, but Allyn stopped me with a word. “Crawford?”

“He’s giving me some time to get settled in. He’s waiting on a phone call telling him I’m ready for a visit.”

“That’s a phone call that’ll never happen,” he said, partly under his breath.

“What?”

“You’ll get back to work here, pick up some new clients, take off on salvaging trips, do what you do—and just not be able to find a free weekend for him to come.”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t think that’s what will happen at all. I—”

“You and I both know how this will go.” Allyn cut off my babbling. “The same thing happens every time you meet someone.”