The Summer House

by Lauren K. Denton

  “I know that, but don’t you think . . . Well, she might be a little embarrassed to have her daughter-in-law working at the place where she gets her hair done.”

  “Embarrassed? What’s embarrassing about being a hairstylist?” When he didn’t respond, she shrugged. “Okay, so I’ll find another place. There are other salons around here. It’s not like I don’t have the time.”

  “Lily, I— You don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t have to get a job. That’s why I work hard—so you can stay home.”

  He never did understand that “staying home” wasn’t her goal. She’d been working for more than ten years by the time she met Worth, and sitting still wasn’t something she knew how to do.

  “Look, if you really want to work,” he added when she began to object, “tell my mom. She’s been looking for someone to work in the front office a few days a week. You’d be perfect for it.” His tone indicated his pleasure at having solved the problem, and Lily let the matter drop. Now she wondered why she’d let it go—let her gift go—without a fight.

  On the table next to her, her phone buzzed with a text. It was from Mertha.

  When are you heading back this way? Harold probably can’t hold the house for you much longer.

  Lily rubbed her forehead. Of course Worth’s mother knew the details of their corporate lease. She probably knew the details of their entire marriage. Possibly even where he was at this moment, although she’d denied any knowledge of his whereabouts every time Lily had asked.

  The guesthouse will work for you just fine, her mother-in-law’s next text read.

  Just until you and Worth sort things out.

  Sort things out? The sorting had been done as far as Lily was concerned. And why was Mertha offering Lily a place to stay? Lily assumed Mertha would be glad to be rid of her, considering Mertha had never wanted Worth to marry her in the first place. Lily pressed the button on the side of the phone and darkened the screen. Then, on second thought, she opened the text message and tapped out a quick response.

  I’m not coming back.

  Mertha’s reply was instant:

  Don’t be stubborn. Worth would want you back here with family.

  Not family, Lily thought. Not anymore. If they ever were at all.

  Worth lost his say when he filed for divorce.

  This time she turned the phone off entirely.

  It had been a little over two weeks since the morning she woke up to his absence, and regardless of what Mertha said about him needing time to sort things out, Lily felt in her bones, in her blood, that he wasn’t coming back. That they really were done. Hour by hour, minute by minute even, she seesawed between fizzy bubbles of relief in her chest—a relief that surprised her every time it showed its giddy face—and a terror so solid and thick she could feel it threatening to suffocate her.

  But as she had for the last two weeks, she swallowed the terror, stuffed it down into a small space in her overcrowded heart, and mentally took the next step. She smoothed her hand across the front of the flyer once more. Safe Harbor Village.

  * * *

  Early the next morning, in the quiet stillness of her rented house, Lily called the number on the flyer before she could change her mind.

  “May I ask why you’re calling?” the clipped voice on the phone asked. “Are you a potential resident?”

  “Oh no, I—”

  “I have to ask because we only have a couple cottages open at this time, and we require a detailed background check, personal references, and a phone interview before we invite potential residents for an on-site tour. I’d hate for you to drive all this way for nothing.”

  “I see. Do you require all that for the hairstylist position?”

  “Hairstylist.” The woman’s voice flattened.

  “Yes, ma’am. I saw the flyer at the grocery store and . . . someone told me to come see Rose.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. I used to cut hair. And I’m looking for a job.” Lily nibbled on her thumbnail.

  “Well. That was fast.” She sighed as if disappointed to have a job candidate. “I suppose I could see you around two o’clock today. Do you have a pen? I’ll tell you how to get here, but you’ll have to pay attention.”

  Lily jotted down the directions and kept herself busy until it was time to go. Her stomach was a knot of nerves, fluttery and vaguely nauseated, but she tamped down the butterflies. She knew nothing about this place or the people who lived there, but it was a job she could do. She could cut hair. She generally liked people. And she didn’t want Worth’s money anymore. She needed a way to make her own.

  Lily turned right just past the sign for Jack Edwards Airport, then took another right. The road ahead was long and empty, straight as an arrow, and lined on both sides with tall trees and thick brush. The woman on the phone had said this road would feel too long, like she’d taken a wrong turn.

  “Stay the course,” she’d said. “The road only leads one place, and we’re at the end.”

  Lily gripped the steering wheel, the sun’s heat sinking into her palms, giving her courage. The thing that had been needling the back of her mind since Worth’s disappearance, the thing that kept her hanging on instead of drifting away, now stood at attention in her mind. She was alone, but she was enough. No one was coming to her rescue, but maybe what would save her was inside her. Maybe it had been inside her all this time.

  The Village Vine

  Your Source for Neighborhood News

  May 9, 2018

  Compiled by Shirley Ferrill

  Good day, Safe Harbor Village!

  Tides

  High tides will be in the 6:15–7:45 p.m. range, while low tides will fall somewhere between 4:10 and 6:20 a.m. Make your fishing plans accordingly.

  Weather

  Summer is cranking up early with temps in the mid-80s during the day but falling pleasantly to the mid- to upper 60s at night. If you take an evening stroll, consider bringing a light sweater.

  Marine Life

  A manatee has been spotted by more than one concerned villager in recent weeks. It seems the large mammal is trying to swim toward the Bon Secour River, but the current is pushing it back. Attempts to direct it toward the bay have been unsuccessful. Marine authorities have been contacted, and I will update you again as soon as I find out more.

  Safe Harbor News

  The Summer Kickoff Party will be held the last Saturday in May. I know it’s a few weeks before the meteorological start of summer, but as we all know, temps creep up as soon as the white pants come out, and the beginning of another summer season is a reason to celebrate.

  For months now we’ve been hearing about a possible new resort, Island Breeze, coming to the island. The name may be apropos, but can you imagine the trucks that would tear up the roads and the commotion a building project like that would stir up? I assure you, villagers, I was ready to stand all day with my picket signs if necessary, but the powers that be have elected to build their fancy resort elsewhere. It seems people are learning about our quiet little haven here on Safe Harbor Island. Next time someone asks you where you live, consider telling them about the odor from Humphrey Hammond’s infernal crab traps.

  Recreation

  The paddleboats Coach ordered should arrive any day now. As soon as they’re in, he will plan a guided tour of Bon Secour River for interested parties. You’ll find the sign-up sheet on the clubhouse bulletin board. I feel it is my civic duty to inform all of you that the last time Coach was on a nonmotorized vessel, he and everyone in the boat capsized. Sign up at your own risk.

  Reminders from Management

  Please keep the homeowners’ association guidelines in mind as you make decisions regarding outdoor décor. Yard art is strictly forbidden. This includes, but is not limited to, dolphin-shaped mailboxes, concrete or plastic figures (flamingos, deer, garden gnomes, etc.), and oversize bird feeders. Remember, if it detracts, give it the ax!

  Dogs are tolerated in the villag
e, but not their droppings. If your canine friend must relieve himself or herself, do us all a favor—pick up the waste and dispose of it properly. And not in the marina! There is a $100 fine for every violation. (Any money collected will be added to the bingo pot.)

  Lastly, The Village Vine received a letter this week, and as editor, I feel compelled to share it with all of you:

  To Whom It May Concern,

  With last year’s departure of Beverly Pine and the resulting closure of the village hair salon, I would like to request that management hire a replacement. I understand that some people think a village hairstylist is unnecessary, but those of us who have been traveling all the way to Mobile to get a decent haircut would disagree. Other than an hour of travel time, our only other option is Coach Beaumont, who says he cut the hair of his whole fraternity during his college years. We ladies feel it is within our rights as Village homeowners to have access to a reasonably proximate and qualified hairstylist, no offense to Coach.

  Sincerely, and with solid trust in management’s excellent decision-making skills,

  Tiny Collins

  Sunrise Café Menu

  May 10–May 16

  Mains: spaghetti & meatballs, shrimp & grits, Mississippi pot roast

  Sides: honey-glazed carrots, fried okra, butter beans, macaroni & cheese

  Desserts: chocolate icebox pie, layered lemon cake, peach cobbler

  Four

  Rose Carrigan woke to the sound of singing. It was far off, but it was insistent. Deep. Male. Perky.

  She groaned and pulled the pillow over her head, then shoved it away when she realized the voice still trickled through the layers of cotton and down. Exasperated, she sat up, rubbed her face, and threw back the blanket. The tile floor was cool on her bare feet, and she was glad she hadn’t put down carpet like so many of the other residents had done in their own cottages. Carpet harbored all manner of untidy organisms she’d rather not have camped out around her toes. Hard tile floor suited her just fine.

  Before she yanked open the French doors of her second-floor balcony, she spotted Coach’s red hat bouncing on the other side of the tall grass alongside the water. All she could see of him was his hat, but it moved swiftly back and forth, telling her he was in his canoe again, rowing. He continued to warble, his voice winding its way inside her bedroom even though the windows were firmly closed.

  She wrinkled her nose and exhaled. He was so doggone cheerful it sometimes made her stomach ache. The man was known to burst into song at any given moment, as if he couldn’t bear to keep his happiness—his exuberance at nothing more than plain old life—to himself. Then he had the gall to try to spread it around.

  She turned for the stairs, grabbing her cotton robe off the end of the bed on the way. Downstairs she tightened the belt around her middle before opening the back door and tromping out onto the damp grass. At the water’s edge, she waited for Coach to round the bend.

  “Good morning, Rose,” he huffed when he saw her, his cheeks pink with exertion. “You’re up bright and early today.”

  She crossed her arms and tried not to look at his chest, bare as the day was long. “I am up early, Coach Beaumont. Any idea why?”

  He paused in his rowing and let the canoe coast for a moment before breaking into a grin. “I don’t have the foggiest. Lady problems?”

  She tightened her mouth. “Is there any reason you are outside my bedroom window singing this early in the morning?”

  “Rose, I am not outside your bedroom window.” He spread his arms toward the bay, smooth and silver as a mirror. “I’m out here enjoying the beginning of a brand-new day in the most beautiful spot on God’s blue earth.” He shook his head. “I can’t help it if your bedroom window just happens to be within earshot of my enjoyment of the morning.”

  “Just . . . try to enjoy yourself a little quieter. I’m going back to sleep.” She started back for her house, then whirled around again. He was still watching her. “What’s that song you’re singing, anyway? It sounds teenagery.”

  “It’s John Mellencamp, sugar. And he’s not teenagery—he’s one for the ages.” Coach picked up his oars and resumed rowing. “‘It’s a lonely ol’ night,’” he sang, his voice nicer than she cared to admit. “‘Can I put my arms around you?’”

  She sighed and turned again, stepping firmly through the grass, wishing it were something harder so she could emphasize her displeasure with the sound of stomping feet. Silly old man. Making her feel like a squirmy teenager. Rose Carrigan wasn’t about to let anyone put their arms around her, and she surely did not allow herself to feel ruffled by a man who went by the name Coach and wore flip-flops every day but Christmas, and some years, even then.

  She was in charge of this place. The keeper of the keys, as it were. For the moment at least. The unexpected message in her inbox a few days ago had gone a long way toward redirecting the way she saw her future.

  But until she made a decision, she was the village owner.

  Back inside her spotless kitchen, she flipped on her four-cup Mr. Coffee and grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil. If she wanted to add another rule to the Safe Harbor Village Handbook, she could certainly do so. While coffee dripped into the glass carafe, Rose stood at her counter and wrote a note in her careful penmanship.

  No loud noise—including singing—before 7 a.m.

  “There.” She ripped out the page, folded it once, and slid it into an envelope. She’d stick it in Shirley Ferrill’s mailbox after breakfast.

  When the coffeepot stopped dripping, she poured a cup and sat down at her kitchen table. It wasn’t until she saw Coach rowing back toward shore that she remembered she’d meant to go back to sleep.

  She sighed and sipped her coffee, but its heat burned her tongue. She set the mug down with a thud and a bit sloshed over the edge. As she wiped up the mess with a dish towel, she watched Coach out the window and huffed.

  Twenty minutes into the day and he’d already ruined it.

  * * *

  After her too-early start, Rose felt off. Not her usual self. Her body felt tired, though her mind was a hive of activity. She tried to settle herself with a cup of lemon tea and a chapter of an old Anne Rivers Siddons novel she’d picked up secondhand at Beach Reads, and when that didn’t work, she found herself in the same place she always ended up when she felt out of sorts—her rose garden.

  She knew it bordered on cheeky to have a rose garden when one’s name was Rose, but the bushes were planted for her as a gift, and Rose had come to accept her prickly relationship with them. They were as much a part of her life as her elevated blood pressure and newly overactive bladder. Many times she’d considered asking Rawlins to pull them out and plant something simple in their place. Some low-maintenance shrubbery—Mexican sage maybe, or plumbago. Something that wasn’t so needy. But each time, she reconsidered, then picked up her pruning shears or her bottle of fungicide, and slipped on her gardening gloves instead.

  Sometimes she thought of them as her thinking gloves, because often as soon as she pulled them on and took her place in the flower beds, her mind settled, discarding unnecessary worries and elevating those that needed her attention. And today what needed her attention, what was causing her mind to vibrate on overdrive, was that email.

  Rose, I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I can only hope the news I have to share with you will be of the welcome variety. We’ve finally been offered a chance to sell Safe Harbor Village, and for a pretty penny too. You and I would both be set, and you could do whatever you like—stay in the village under the new ownership or take your money and move elsewhere. The world is your oyster.

  Let me know your thoughts.

  Terry

  She’d read the email so many times she could recite it word for word, though she hadn’t spoken of it to a single soul in the village. No need to start a panic when she hadn’t decided what to do.

  But somewhere down deep, underneath everything else piled on top that covered up truth and honest
y, Rose knew what she wanted her answer to be. She wanted to say yes to Terry. She had nowhere else to go, but looking back over her life, she never could have imagined she’d be alone at nearly seventy years old and in charge of a bunch of people just as old as she was. This was where life had placed her, but she never thought she’d stay as long as she had.

  She was reaching down to check a stem for signs of the black spot fungus that arrived each humid summer, when she heard rapid footsteps on the street. She turned to see Peter and Ida Gold fast-walking toward her, their slim hips swiveling in tandem, arms pumping, sweatbands around their foreheads as if it were already ninety degrees out.

  Peter held up a hand as they approached. “Morning, Rose.”

  Rose nodded. “Peter. Ida.”

  The Golds were the healthiest residents at the village. As bronzed as pennies twelve months out of the year, they walked three fifteen-minute miles every morning and snacked on sunflower seeds and rice cakes. Peter was still a proud six feet tall with thick hair and a Magnum, P.I. mustache, though his was silvery white.

  A former set designer, Ida was obsessed with Old Hollywood and had even been cast as an extra in several Rat Pack movies. These days, as dementia began to take root, she often thought she was on a movie set, even going so far as to talk to “the director” about where she should stand when she entered a room.

  In deference to Peter’s commanding presence and his unflagging love and devotion to Ida, everyone in the village obeyed his instructions not to question or correct her but just to go along with whatever she said.