The Hideaway

Bert cleared his throat and Major shifted in his chair. “Silly? What’s so silly about it?” Major asked.

“We’re old!” Dot said. “Why would Mags leave it to us when we’re probably not far behind her? It belongs to Sara, as it should.”

“Maybe, but we’ve all lived there for decades.” Major’s voice grew louder. “She could have at least given us a say in what happened to the house.”

Glory rested her small dark hand on Major’s beefy one. “We’re lucky Mags made any plans at all. She loved us, so of course she wants to take care of us. She would never want us turned out on the street.” She glanced at me as if looking for confirmation.

I opened my mouth, then closed it. My mind was a chalkboard wiped clean. My fingers found the edges of the folded letter inside the envelope.

“Thank you, Vernon.” Dot stood. “It’s time for us all to go home. We’ll eat, then we can talk about everything.” She looked at me. “We’ll see you at the house.”

I pried open the manila envelope before I even closed my car door. Aside from the copy of the will Mr. Bains mentioned, there were two sheets of paper. The first sheet was letterhead from First Coastal Bank with an account number stamped at the bottom. The other was Mags’s letter. I peered inside the envelope, expecting it to be empty, but it wasn’t. I turned the envelope upside down and a key slid into my open hand. It was small, the color of an old penny, and almost weightless.

Dot and the others were still moseying across the parking lot toward their cars. I pulled the letter out and started reading.

Dear Sara,

You’re probably wondering why in the world I decided to leave you the bed-and-breakfast—my refuge, my own hideaway for fifty years—when you’ve spent years building your own life in New Orleans. But aside from my dear roommates, you are my entire family. Who else could I give the house to? I’m sure at least one of them (probably Major) will disagree, but it’s my house, my choice.

As Mr. Bains read in the will, my hope is that you will do what you must to make The Hideaway beautiful. It was once, long before I stumbled on it, and it’s high time someone restored it to what it should have been all along. I let it go to make a point, but my anger has long since dried up. The place deserves to shine again and you, my dear, are the person to tackle the job. I don’t care how you do it, just give the house back its glory. After that, you can do whatever you want with it. If you decide to sell it, please give my friends enough time to make alternate plans.

Don’t worry about money. I have an account at First Coastal with your name on it. Use the money to do whatever you need.

To say The Hideaway is important to me is an understatement. I’ll go to my grave carrying memories of both sweet, miraculous love and deep, aching loss in my heart, and the house has been a witness to it all. My highest hope is that somehow, it can give you the love and strength it’s given me over the years.

I trust your vision for the house and for your future. Just remember the two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.

Love,

Mags

7

MAGS

JANUARY 1960

His name was William. He told me a little about himself on our walk: woodworker. Had some pieces in local shops and galleries. Good at it, but didn’t make much money. Never married.

I gave him similarly scant details about my own life. Society life in Mobile. Balls and parties. Married. Husband huddled up in a chalet with his lover.

“Puts you in a bit of an awkward position, now, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“Awkward?” I laughed. “Of all the positions it puts me in, awkward doesn’t come to mind.”

He just smiled.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “At The Hideaway, I mean. You don’t live here, do you?”

“I do. For the moment, at least. I’ve moved around with buddies the last few years. We were up in Asheville for a while, then down to Florida. I landed in Sweet Bay last year but just moved in with the charming Mrs. DeBerry a couple of weeks ago.”

We walked on. Down the path in front of us, a family piled into a motorboat, arms overflowing with jackets, blankets, and fishing poles.

“And you? What brings you here?”

“I told you. My husband left. So I did too.”

“There’s more to it than that. There always is.”

“You want to hear the whole sad story?”

“I don’t have anything else to do or anywhere else to be.” He smiled, then his brow creased. “But if it’s not something you want to talk about, I understand.”

I took a deep breath of the damp, cool air and blew it out. “I think it’s okay. Being here makes everything that’s happened seem . . . well, a little less crushing. It started before we were even engaged, so I guess you could say we got off on the wrong foot. Robert and I had been going steady for a while when he asked me to be his date to the biggest Mardi Gras ball in Mobile. A mutual friend had seen him downtown weeks earlier outside Zieman’s Jewelers, shaking hands with Mr. Zieman himself. Naturally, I expected a ring to come soon, maybe even the night of the ball.”

Just then, the boat with the little family roared to life. We paused and watched the man back the boat out of its spot alongside a covered pier, then zoom off toward deeper waters.

“Let me guess—the ring didn’t come,” William said, resuming our walk.

“Not exactly. I knew Robert was very popular—especially with the girls—but I chose to ignore the rumors. I was content knowing he’d asked me to be his date when he could have asked anyone. In hindsight, I should have paid a little more attention to those rumors.”

“It’s always easier to ignore the things we don’t really want to know.”

“Yes, well, it would have saved me some tears if I’d listened.”

In my mind, I saw the twinkling lights hanging from the ballroom rafters as if they were etched in my brain. The men at the ball were in high spirits, drunk on liquor, excitement, and the look of their ladies in floor-length, sparkling gowns. Every so often, Mother would catch my eye and smile like everything was right with the world.

And it was—until AnnaBelle Whitaker entered the room.

“What happened at the ball?” William asked.

I shrugged. “He had a problem being faithful. Even back then.”

“So you left.”

“It took me a while, but yes. I left.”

“And you could have gone anywhere. Gotten in that car and put a thousand miles between you and your cheating husband. But instead you ended up here, walking beside me. Life’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”

“Funny?” I asked. “I’m not quite sure that’s the right word.”

I married Robert Van Buren. Handsome Robert, who came home from Korea and wanted to get to know his neighborhood pal again. But by that time, I was a woman, no longer the childhood buddy. He courted me, romanced me, and asked me to the ball, then humiliated me in front of all of Mobile. But I married him anyway! Then he did just what I, and probably everyone else in town, expected him to do—and I kept staying! After all, good wives didn’t leave their husbands, however unfaithful they were.

Without warning, a snort of laughter escaped me. William stopped walking and stared at me, but I kept laughing, unconcerned with whether I was being proper. I laughed until my stomach ached and tears dripped from my chin. I wasn’t altogether sure whether those tears were from humor or grief.