Dedication
To Anna and Holly.
And Voxer.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
The Village Vine
Four
Five
The Village Vine
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
The Village Vine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
The Village Vine
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
The Village Vine
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
The Village Vine
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
The Village Vine
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
The Village Vine
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
An Excerpt from The Hideaway by Lauren K. Denton Chapter 1: Mags
Chapter 2: Sara
About the Author
Acclaim for Lauren K. Denton
Other Books by Lauren K. Denton
Copyright
One
The morning Worth left, something pulled Lily from her sleep, though at first glance nothing seemed out of place. The light coming through the bedroom window was soft and hazy. Above her the ceiling fan ticked and swayed, and outside a lone bird sang, trying to rouse its friends. Everything else was still and quiet.
She sat up in bed and smoothed her hand over the empty space next to her, the sheets on Worth’s side twisted and tangled as usual. It was Friday, thankfully, the end of a long week, one she and her husband had both hoped would go better. Worth had spent twelve-plus hours each day this week at his new real estate job, giving himself a crash course in the company and coming home each night tossing out terms she didn’t understand—things like metes and bounds, plats and surveys.
For her part Lily had spent an equal amount of time trying, mostly in vain, to brighten up their drab rental home just off Highway 59 in Foley, Alabama. She’d also dodged phone calls from her mother-in-law, Mertha, who’d taken to calling Lily every few hours once she’d accepted that her son was avoiding her calls. “Just checking in,” Mertha would say, wanting to know the state of everything from Worth’s job to his mood to his laundry.
Lily had never been so glad for a weekend. She hoped they’d be able to take some time on Saturday to drive around and look for a more permanent place, a house they could make their own, though for all Lily knew, Worth may have been planning to work right through until Monday.
With her mind still fuzzy with sleep, she rose from the bed and made her way down the short hall toward the kitchen. That’s when she realized what was wrong. She usually woke to the scent of strong Colombian roast coffee wafting from the kitchen into the bedroom, luring her with a warm, heady promise.
Their fancy Bonavita coffee maker, a wedding gift from Worth’s best man, was the first thing he had unpacked two weeks ago when they arrived in Foley from Atlanta, and he’d made a steaming pot of extra-robust coffee every morning before he left for work. It was a small token, especially when everything felt so upside down, but Lily had long grown used to feeling off balance, and she took the daily gift of hot coffee for what it was—his way of offering sustenance, love, and maybe a little hope, all in her favorite mug.
This morning, however, the gleaming silver coffeepot was cold and quiet. She was still tying the belt of her thin robe around her waist when she saw the note propped up against it. A mechanical pencil lay next to it.
Lily, I can’t do this anymore. You deserve more than what I can give you. I’m so sorry.
Puzzled, she stared at the piece of paper, waiting for the words to transform into something different, something that made more sense. But they didn’t. She blinked hard, pressing her eyelids together until she saw white spots. She turned her head side to side, the muscles in her neck stretching and releasing. But when she opened her eyes, the words were still there. That’s when she noticed the packet on the other side of the coffee maker. The thin white envelope almost blended into the counter. Her full name—Lily Chapman Bishop—was typed on the front of the unsealed envelope. With the tips of her fingers, Lily reached inside and slid a piece of paper out a few inches. She scanned the top of the page.
State of Alabama, United Judicial System.
Complaint for Divorce.
Plaintiff: Ainsworth Madison Bishop IV
She pulled the paper out farther, unbelieving, until she saw his name signed at the bottom. It was his handwriting, no doubt—small, mostly capital letters, the ink pressed hard into the page.
Then, like a current of cold water pouring over her, a thought rang in her head, clear and sure. It’s finally happened. She pressed her palms to the cool surface of the counter.
She realized she’d been waiting for this, probably since the day he slipped a ring on her finger and asked her to marry him. Maybe even since the day they first met. Their union had seemed improbable from the very start, but they’d stubbornly defied everyone and clung so tightly to each other, there had been no room between them for doubt, not a sliver of space for any misgiving or hesitation.
She lifted her head and spread the note out in front of her, smoothing out the creases. Underneath his words, he’d written something else, then erased it. The paper there was gray and blurry, as if he’d tried several times to add more words but kept second-guessing himself. Finally, below the smudge, he’d added his name.
Worth
That was it.
She braced herself against the counter, the edges biting into her hips and the skin of her hands, and took a deep breath.
* * *
The evening before had been beautiful—one of those spring nights when the air managed to feel both crisp and warm at the same time. She’d made dinner for them to eat on their small patio out back, with the wild roses climbing over the privacy fence and the sky a constantly changing landscape of pink, orange, and lilac.
As she tossed together a salad to go with their pasta, she’d felt optimistic—hopeful even. Maybe something good would come from this move to sunny south Alabama. Maybe this would be where they could create something lasting—for them, for their marriage, for their life.
She’d planned to bring up the subject of house hunting, but when she joined him outside and glanced at him across the rickety wrought iron table, the sight of his red, tear-rimmed eyes pushed away all her prior thoughts. She was stunned. In the year and a half she’d known him, she’d never seen her husband cry or even come close to it.
“Worth?” She set down her fork and reached across the table. “What’s wrong?”
The shape of him was so familiar to her—the slope of his shoulders, his flyaway blond hair, the way his calf muscles narrowed down to his ankles. This evening he’d crossed one leg over the other knee, and his foot bopped up and down. His face, body, even the air around him seemed to quiver with tension. For being so attuned to his body, she wished she knew his mind and his heart half as well.
“What is it?” she repeated.
He took a deep breath and blinked a few times. “I’m sorry I brought you here.” His voice trembled as he spoke. “To this new town. This”—he lifted his hand and gestured behind her—“this ugly house. I’ve completely uprooted you. And for what?” He laughed, but it was devoid of humor.<
br />
“Babe, my life was uprooted long before you came along.” She smiled to show she was kidding, but they both knew her words were true. “And what do you mean, ‘for what’? We came here for your new job. A new start. For both of us. Right?”
He rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand and cleared his throat. “I haven’t been a very good husband to you.”
The sadness in his eyes almost undid her. She opened her mouth to speak but found she had no words to offer that could fix things. That could fix them.
He gently pulled his hand out from under hers and began to eat, and after a moment she did the same. They didn’t talk about looking for houses; they didn’t talk about his job. They didn’t talk about much of anything.
He remained on the patio long after she cleared the dinner dishes away and wiped the last smudges from the kitchen counter. When he finally came to bed hours later, the scent of whiskey on his breath, he curled his body around hers, his chest pressed to her back. His hand found hers, and they lay like that for a long time, the only sounds their mingled breaths.
Something in his silent embrace felt different from the usual way he held her. It was only now, standing at the counter holding his note, that she put her finger on what exactly she’d felt as he’d tightened his arms around her the night before. It had felt final. He’d been saying goodbye.
* * *
That night Lily poured herself a glass of wine and carried it to the patio. Sitting in the same chair she’d sat in the night before, she gazed across the table at Worth’s seat, empty but for a single dragonfly perched on the back. Its iridescent wings glimmered, reflecting the light of another sunset.
She’d spent the day absorbing, digesting, and reframing Worth’s disappearance to the best of her ability, yet she’d come up with nothing more than this: she was alone. Again. But this time there was no one else to jump in and save her. Her mom was gone, everything she had that had been connected to her was gone, and now Worth had left too, effectively pulling off the bandage that had been covering up all those wounds. Lily was the only one who remained.
She closed her eyes and took a long sip of her wine, willing it to dull the day’s sharp edges. Letting herself sink would be so easy, just like falling asleep. She could cover herself in grief like a blanket and never get up again. But all day something had been prodding her, way at the back of her mind like a dream she’d mostly forgotten. Whatever it was, it was the thing that kept her from sinking. From letting go.
She slowed her breathing and stilled her movements. She felt the weight of her arms and legs, the substantial there-ness of her body. Her pumping heart, the breath in and out of her lungs.
Everyone else is gone, but I’m here.
I’m still here.
That night when Mertha called, Lily answered.
“What do you mean, he left you a note?” Mertha asked. “What did it say?”
“The note was for me, but he did leave me a stack of papers. They’re divorce papers, Mertha.” The steadiness of her own voice surprised her, and she leaned into it, thankful for the stubborn resolve that coursed through her.
Mertha was quiet, and Lily could imagine the shock and fury crisscrossing her mother-in-law’s face as she tried to formulate her thoughts. “That’s . . . that’s insane,” she finally managed. “You must be mistaken.”
“It’s hard to mistake something like this. He’s signed his name, so I think he’s pretty sure about it.”
“He can’t be sure about it. Bishops don’t get divorced, Lily. We make things work.” She let out a short, hard breath. “This is so unlike him. Did you do something? In all his years, Worth has never gone this long without talking to me, and it just happens to be right after the two of you up and moved away. I knew something was wrong.”
Lily pinched her lips together, willing herself to remain calm. “Mertha, your son is thirty years old. He’s a grown man and he’s making his own decisions. Trust me, I’m not standing in the way of him talking to you. I’m not standing in the way of him doing anything.”
“Have you called him? Why don’t I try calling him again?”
Lily had called him, in fact. Only once. The call went to voice mail, and she hadn’t left a message. What was there to say? After that, she called Worth’s office, but no one there had seen or heard from him.
“If it makes you feel better, try calling him,” Lily said. “Maybe he’ll answer you this time.”
“I’ll do that. I’ll give him a call and see what in the world is going on. Just go easy on him.” Mertha paused. “With this new job and the sudden move, he’s been under a lot of stress. If you do talk to him, have him call me.”
Lily sighed. “We both know you’ll hear from him before I will. And when you do . . .” Lily paused, but the impulse to say the words was still there, so she continued. “Tell him not to come back.”
There. The words were out. She was done. She’d expected anger, and it was there, in part, but what she felt most of all was relief.
Mertha was silent, and her shocked breaths whispered through the phone. When she finally spoke, her voice was icy. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” Lily’s retort was a jab of assertion. And it was true. She did mean it. She almost laughed at her unexpected boldness.
“You don’t,” Mertha jabbed back. “You don’t get to tell my son to stay away. He made a serious misstep when he married you, but what’s done is done and we make the best of it. You do what you need to do to calm yourself down, but when all this blows over—and I will make sure it blows over—you’ll need to be able to pick up the pieces, put them back together, and move forward. Trust me on this. You’re his wife.”
“But I’m not,” Lily said gently. “Not anymore.”
Two
The secretary tapped lightly on the door, then opened it a crack.
“Lily Bishop is here. Are you ready?” Her voice was perky, her eyebrows planted high on her forehead.
“Send her in, please,” Lily heard from the other side of the door.
With a flourish, the secretary opened the door a few feet and gestured with her free hand. “Go right on in.” The woman’s smile was wide and tight. Behind her, Lily saw another receptionist furtively glancing in their direction.
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat and put one foot in front of the other. As she crossed the threshold, she eyed the temporary nameplate on the wall next to the door. Worth hadn’t been there long enough to get a real nameplate. Instead, his name was written in Sharpie on a sheet of paper.
It was strange to walk into her husband’s office and see Harold Pender sitting behind the desk. Mr. Pender, a fixture back home in Atlanta, had recently hired Worth to head up the south Alabama branch of his real estate development company, Pender Properties, despite the fact that Worth had no real estate experience. The Bishop business was lumber, and everyone in the family had their fingers in it, including Worth, right up until the day he told his mother he wanted out.
Mr. Pender’s jacket was draped across the back of the desk chair, his briefcase open on an adjacent seat. It was as if Worth had never been there at all. But there on the table under the window was the fern Lily had given him on his first day of work. When she bought it, the fern had vivid green leaves and healthy stems. Now the poor plant was in need of a good watering and dry leaves were scattered across the tabletop.
Mr. Pender motioned for her to have a seat across from the desk. When she was settled, he pushed aside a laptop and propped his hands on top of a pile of papers on the desk. She took in the deep red smudges beneath his eyes, the defeated slump of his shoulders. Instead of being back in Atlanta, presiding over council meetings and land acquisition dealings, Worth’s boss was here, in Foley, Alabama, cleaning up Worth’s mess.
“I’m sorry for the . . .” He gestured to the stacks of papers. “I was in the middle of a lot of projects back home when I heard what had happened here. This was a good deal for Worth. I’m still not sure
what . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I know I don’t need to rehash all this with you.”
He paused, clearly waiting for her to speak, but she didn’t have anything to say. After an awkward moment, he continued. “Things were already behind schedule when Worth arrived, and this new . . . situation . . . has slowed things down even more. There’s a deal that’s pending, and if I don’t have someone here to handle it in the right way . . .” He spread his hands out on the desktop. “I’m sure you can see the difficult position this puts me in.”
She tilted her head. “This must be very hard for you.”
Mr. Pender reached up to his tie and loosened it. “I’m sorry. It’s difficult all the way around, I know. I can’t begin to imagine what it must be like for you. Worth didn’t say anything to you about where he might have been going?”
She’d been asked that same question so many times in the days since he’d left, in so many different variations. At some point they were all going to have to accept that being Worth’s wife did not make her privy to his interior life. His thoughts. His plans.
When she didn’t answer, he reached for a folder and tapped it against the desk, then laid his hand on top and met her gaze. “Bottom line is I have to hire someone else to fill this position and I need to do it quickly. I have two guys interested, one who can start next week. I’m leaning in his direction.” He paused and took a breath. “I’ve held off on this in the hopes that Worth would show up, but . . . I’m afraid I can only give you through the weekend to make living arrangements.”
“Living arrangements?” Her mind spun into top gear. “What do you mean?”
“The house, in Pelican Cove? The new guy will live there. That’s what the house is for. For quick starts, just until new hires can have a chance to look around and find a place that fits them.”
“But that’s— We rented that house. I know it’s just temporary, but we were doing just what you said—living there until we found something else. I haven’t had a chance to look around, but surely . . .”
The Summer House Page 1