The Hideaway

“How else was I going to get you talking? I had almost no idea who you were until last night. I never would have pegged you as a former Bourbon Street bartender in hot pants.”

I smacked him on the arm and pretended to be put off all day, but he knew better. “You had fun and you know it. You should let your hair down more often. You’re much more fun to be around when you’re not working so hard to keep all those balls up in the air. Let one fall now and then.”

The rest of Louisiana and all of Mississippi passed in a blur of concrete, casino billboards, and occasional lingering hurricane damage. When I crossed the state line into Alabama, something clenched in my stomach. I had no idea what the next few days would hold. Being twelve years old when my parents died, I didn’t have to take care of anything related to the business of death. Mags had been there to talk to the doctors, the lawyer, the funeral home. I was insulated from the ugliness of it all, except for the savage hole in my heart. When Mags took to her bed after the funeral, Dot stepped in as my surrogate mother. She sent thank-you notes to those who had sent food, returned casserole dishes, delivered the funeral bouquets to the hospital, and packed lunches for me when I went back to school.

As the only surviving member of our tiny family, I’d likely be responsible for all those particulars. But this time, there wasn’t a twelve-year-old child in the mix. She had grown into a thirty-year-old woman more than capable of taking care of the details.

I arrived at Mr. Bains’s office ten minutes before our scheduled meeting. I approached the door to his office on the sixth floor with a mix of nerves and determination, certain I’d be walking away with nothing more than a few dusty boxes of old clothes and maybe some items belonging to my parents.

“Excuse me. It’s time to . . . um . . . ahem.” Mr. Bains cleared his throat to get our attention. Dot, Bert, Glory, and Major had spent the last ten minutes oohing and aahing over me.

“Your hair is so pretty. It’s longer since we saw you last.” Glory examined a dark lock between her fingers. Her short dreadlocks stood up at jaunty angles. “I just got a new shade of red in last week. Maybe you’ll let me try it out on you? Fix you up nice for the funeral.”

Glory Gregg was the hairdresser at The Hideaway. At one time she kept the residents’ hair in the latest dos deemed acceptable for senior citizens, and a few that would look better on skateboarding teens. Did Ms. Mary Lou ever forgive Glory for the bad dye job that left her hair eggplant purple instead of dusky midnight? Major was Glory’s army veteran husband. I never knew if Major was his given name or just his title.

“I’m making Mags’s favorite chicken à la king tonight in her honor,” Bert, the chief culinary officer, said. All the residents knew they needed permission before entering the kitchen. Bert was soft-spoken and gentle, but the kitchen was his domain and he’d let you know if you overstayed your welcome when he needed to start a meal. “You’ll be at the house for dinner, right?”

“Sure she will,” Dot said. “I’ve already gotten the blue room ready for you, dear.”

Before I could speak, Mr. Bains stood up behind his desk. “If I could have everyone’s attention, we’ll get started. This shouldn’t take long, but I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.” He looked down at his watch before he sat and opened a slim folder.

“As you all know, I’ve gathered you here for the reading of the will of Mrs. Margaret Van Buren, better known as Mags. In typical cases, as the estate attorney, I would mail a copy of the will to beneficiaries. However, Mrs. Van Buren specifically requested I gather the five of you to hear the will together. Being a longtime friend of hers, I intend to follow her wishes to the letter.”

Instead of speaking of the house itself, Mr. Bains began with a list of mundane items. When he started outlining which kitchen items would go to Bert and which quilts Glory could have, I tuned out. My mind drifted back to the day I became a permanent resident of The Hideaway. My parents had dropped me off so they could do some Christmas shopping. It was only September, but they liked to spread the expenses over a few months rather than end the year in the red. As owners of the only diner in town—famous for their loaded cheeseburger and a darn good catfish pie—they made enough money to pay the bills and keep me in My Little Ponys and then Converse sneakers, but not much extra rattled in their pockets.

It was raining that day. I had curled up in the window seat in the downstairs den, tracing raindrops trailing down the window with my finger, when someone knocked on the door. I paused, waiting to hear movement in the house. No one came, so I rose and peered out the window next to the door.

Sergeant Burnside, the chief of police in Sweet Bay—and a frequent Jenny’s Diner customer—stood on the porch shaking water off his cap. As he settled the cap back on his head, he noticed me standing in the window. His eyebrows crunched together and the worry lines on his forehead deepened.

When Mags appeared behind me and opened the door, Sergeant Burnside asked if he could talk to Mags in private. I knew it was something terrible.

A little while later, Dot found me in my room and gave me the details: the rain, my parents’ 1975 Volvo, a huge water oak, slick roads, and flashing lights. The police found a toy store shopping bag a hundred feet away, sitting in a horse pasture like someone had set it down and left it for a child to find, like a present.

I hadn’t noticed the quiet in the small office overlooking downtown Mobile until Mr. Bains said my name. Now everyone was looking at me.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I asked.

He looked down at the paper in front of him and read.

“‘To my granddaughter, Sara Margaret Jenkins, I bequeath The Hideaway and all its contents, save for those already specified for other people. She is to take possession of the house effective immediately. I request that she use her talents and skills to renovate the house and property to its fullest potential, hiring help as necessary, and live in the house during renovations to keep a close eye on the work. Don’t let anyone bungle this job.’ Her words, not mine.” Mr. Bains looked up at us.

“‘My friends can stay in the house as long as Sara owns it,’” he continued. “‘After renovations are complete, she may do with the house what is in its and her best interest.’”

Mr. Bains rummaged in a desk drawer, then handed me a manila envelope closed with a metal clasp. “Enclosed is a letter she said will explain things in more detail. There’s also a copy of the will for your records. I trust any questions you have will be answered fully by the contents therein.”

We sat in silence as he gathered his things. “If no one has any questions, I have a four o’clock meeting I need to get to. I’m only a phone call away if you think of anything later.”

“Wait, wait.” I held my hand up, unable to grasp what he had just unloaded and not ready to be alone with the others and their questions. “That’s it? That’s all it says?”

“Well, there’s the letter . . .” He motioned to the envelope in my still-outstretched hand.

“But I don’t understand. I only planned to be in Sweet Bay a week. I can’t . . . She’s giving me the house?” I looked around at the familiar faces next to me. “Did any of you know about this?”

“Know she’d leave you the house, you mean?” Dot asked. “No. Although I suppose it’s silly to think she would have left it to anyone else—especially us.”