The Summer House

by Lauren K. Denton

  Outside, the sky was pale blue with high wispy clouds skirting around. A few people from the maintenance team knelt in the flower beds on the side of the clubhouse, and the smell of freshly cut grass and the tang of motor oil filled the air. Rose cast a quick glance down to the marina to where Humphrey Hammond was baiting a crab trap with chunks of dead fish, an odor she could never stomach.

  Instead of the boardwalk, she guided Lily toward the sidewalk running alongside Anchor Lane. They paused a moment to let the mail truck pass by. Next to her, Lily tilted her face up to the sun for a moment, eyes closed against the brightness. She inhaled deeply, a tiny smile playing on her lips. My goodness, Rose thought. The woman is blooming right in front of me.

  When the truck moved on, they walked and Rose pointed out various residents’ cottages lining the road. Each one was painted the same shade of white; the only variation came in the color of the wooden shutters—lime green, pink, mango, turquoise. Up ahead, the road came to a T at Port Place, with more cottages to the left and shops to the right.

  When Terry first mapped out the site of Safe Harbor Village, he said it would be different from previous planned communities he’d built. “It has to fit the contours of the land, and with the island coming to a point here, we’re going to have to go with a single road, rather than a more spread-out neighborhood feel. You sure you’re still okay with this?”

  Rose remembered how, all those years ago, she’d nodded, the fire in her belly smothering the knot of nerves formed by the idea of forsaking her family’s land.

  “It’s not a bad piece of real estate, honestly,” he’d admitted. “I think you made a good call. Sunset views of the bay, peace and quiet. Not your regular tourist destination, that’s for sure. It’ll attract a different kind of crowd.”

  Walking down Anchor Lane, toward the bay that offered such wide sunset views, Rose thought of the “crowd” that had gathered at the village in the years since Terry had been gone—those with more years behind them than ahead. Those looking for one more shot at a type of childlike freedom, despite the havoc age wreaks on a body and mind. Here, along this quiet shore, these people were hoping to find a second chance at happiness.

  Was the village successful? Not many people moved away, and if they did, it was usually because of family demands, not dissatisfaction. That said something about the community here, didn’t it? Rose liked to think this village was the one good thing she’d done in her life—the only thing she hadn’t messed up. She may not have been a part of the community, never quite fitting into the social life of the village, but she was happy that in some way she’d helped create it. And with Terry’s email hovering at the edges of her mind, she wondered if that community would remain even if the ownership were to change hands.

  Lily paused with her hands on her hips and looked down the road. “You said everyone who lives here is . . . older. An active lifestyle community. What exactly does that mean? Is everyone healthy? Or are there nurses and doctors or . . .”

  “Most everyone is healthy. We do have a clinic, just up there with the rest of the shops.” Rose pointed ahead to where the road veered right. “A nurse is in the office three days a week to assist those who need help managing their medications. She’ll do a basic workup—check blood pressure, cholesterol, bone density, weight. She can do hearing and vision tests. If anyone comes down with a bug, it’s easier for them to stop in and see her rather than make an appointment with a doctor in Gulf Shores or Foley. For the most part, though, everyone is healthy and vigorous. This is just like any other neighborhood. It just happens to attract people who are a little more seasoned.”

  “I see. And you mentioned the shops. That’s where the hair salon is?”

  “That’s right. The salon is across the street from Sunrise Café. We have a secondhand bookstore, Beach Reads. Shirley Ferrill manages that. There’s a clothing store, the Pink Pearl. That’s Janelle’s domain. Fran Metzger runs the Masthead, but it’s back by the office. It’s not much more than a general store, but she keeps a few shelves stocked with basic items—some grocery staples, first aid supplies, laundry detergent, that sort of thing. Keeps people from having to drive all the way into Gulf Shores if they run out of coffee or Metamucil.”

  “So you have pretty much everything you need right here.” Lily’s smile faltered. “It seems like a really nice place.”

  Rose straightened the visor on her head. “Do you have—”

  Before she could continue, she heard the unmistakable purr of a golf cart on the road behind them. Rose closed her eyes for a moment, then turned.

  Coach Beaumont had bought himself the golf cart a couple of weeks ago, and he’d wasted no time decorating it with flowered leis as if this were the South Pacific. She’d tried to rule against the cart in last week’s association meeting, but once Coach told the members it was street legal, even going so far as to volunteer to bring in a Baldwin County police officer to swear to it, they overruled Rose’s complaint. Peter Gold even asked if Coach would give him and Ida a ride home in the ridiculous thing.

  Today there were some additions to his decorations: two fuzzy coconuts hanging from the rearview mirror and Janelle Blackmon sitting on the seat next to him, just as pink and perky as she could be.

  Coach beeped his horn, as if they hadn’t already noticed him. When he pulled up to a stop next to them, the coconuts knocked together like wooden wind chimes.

  “Hello, Rose.” He grinned and ran his hand through his windblown hair. His white button-down shirt was open at the neck, revealing tan skin. Rose quickly forced her gaze away when she realized she was staring. Next to him, Janelle smoothed the front of her skirt, which was a couple inches shorter than Rose would have preferred. Her ample chest pushed against the confines of her bubble gum–pink blouse, defiant of her age. It was a shame Rose’s jurisdiction didn’t extend to residents’ attire.

  “Coach. Janelle.”

  “Lovely to see you, Rose,” Janelle chirped. She patted her hair, piled up on her head Brigitte Bardot–like, with bottle-blonde waves curling and swirling everywhere.

  Coach turned to Lily. “Well, who do we have here? Rose, do you have family we don’t know about?”

  “This is Lily Bishop. She’s applying for the hairdresser position,” Rose said pointedly. “I’m giving her a little tour.”

  Coach rapped his knuckles on the dashboard. “That’s great. I know this old mop on my head could use a trim, although I don’t like it to be too short. Makes me look a little too serious.”

  Beside her, Lily gave a small laugh through her nose.

  “I doubt there’s much of anything that could turn you into a serious person,” Rose said. “Definitely not a haircut.”

  Coach’s face fell a bit, like she’d pricked a hole in his balloon and all his hot air fizzed out. She felt something in her rushing out too.

  “You’re probably right about that.” He drummed his fingers on his knee, then said to Janelle, “What do you say I get you on back to your cottage?”

  “Whatever you say, Coach. I’m putty in your hands.”

  Rose rolled her eyes.

  “I found Janelle up the road teetering in those high heels,” Coach said to Lily. “I thought the least I could do was offer her a ride home.”

  Lily smiled. “How gentlemanly.”

  Coach laughed. “Thank you, my dear, though I’m sure Rose would argue with that estimation of me.” He turned the key and the engine leaped to life again. “I hope you take the job,” he said to Lily. “We could use some young energy around here. Let me know when you start. Maybe I’ll swing by.”

  He tooted the horn again and waved as he drove off toward Janelle’s cottage on Port Place.

  “He seems like a nice man,” Lily said.

  “I suppose. If you like that sort.”

  When Rose and Lily reached the end of the street, Rose led them to the right, where the small shops sat close to the road. The area was quite charming, when it came down to it. Years
ago someone had strung twinkle lights between the shops, so at night the area glittered, even after the shops were closed. It was especially quaint during the holiday season, when Roberta hung wreaths in all the shop windows and piped Christmas music through speakers hidden in the flowerpots.

  Rose stopped in front of the closed salon. Two stories, stained wooden porch posts, shutters and front door painted a bright turquoise. Like all the other cottages, it had a long porch across the front with a swing at one end, painted in the same turquoise hue. Clematis climbed over the eaves and cast the porch in deep shade. Those vines will pull the gutters right off the house. She made a mental note to have Rawlins trim them back before anyone moved in.

  A piece of poster board taped to the door proclaimed the salon Closed Until Further Notice. The faded sign curled at the edges where the tape had worn away.

  “Here we are.” Rose pulled her key ring from her pocket and unlocked the door, pushing it open. Sunlight flooded in through the large front window, illuminating the swivel chair, a hooded dryer, and a deep sink. A wicker cabinet held small baskets. Red smocks hung from hooks along the wall, and on a small rattan side table sat a pitcher, a discarded paper cup, and a vase with a single long-dead sunflower.

  Lily stepped inside and ran her hand along the chair back and the large clear dome of the dryer. “Did Beverly not want to take any of her things with her?”

  “We bought it all for the salon, so when she left, all she took was her scissors. And all her personal belongings from upstairs, of course.”

  “Upstairs?”

  “Yes. Beverly lived upstairs. She was living all the way in Spanish Fort at the time, and it was easier for her to stay here rather than make the drive in every day. But you live in Foley, right? So driving in wouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  Along the baseboards, dust motes gathered in the corners and blew against the wood, disturbed by the breeze from the open door. Rose grabbed a broom standing up against the wall. “It won’t take much, just some elbow grease, and it’ll be ready for customers.”

  She swept dust and old sprigs of hair into a small pile before realizing cleaning the floor would take much more than a quick sweeping. She grabbed the dustpan to corral some of the debris, then opened the back door of the tiny kitchen and tapped the pan against the inside of the trash can sitting behind the cottage.

  That was one thing she’d been sure to tell Beverly—don’t take the trash can. The county had agreed to extend garbage pick-up service inside the gates of Safe Harbor Village on the condition that everyone used their city-approved garbage cans. Rose thought the rule was ridiculous, but being a rule follower herself, she insisted all the residents obey it. Years ago a resident had shoved her garbage can into the back of her moving van when she’d relocated, so determined was she to keep the ugly thing. Said she’d never had a can with such ergonomic handles. Rose had to admit she was right about the handles.

  The back of each of the cottages in the village looked the same. Just outside the back door was a small patio ringed by palm trees and a flower bed. A white picket fence lined the edges. Through a gate in the fence, residents could walk down a slope of grass to the boardwalk that edged the marina. Each cottage had its own short dock and space for a boat.

  Before going into the cottage, Rose glanced around the fenced-in patio. Beverly hadn’t been much of a gardener, and the beds along the fence were as sad and empty as they were when she had moved in. The guidelines were such that as long as no one else could see it, residents could do what they wanted with their personal space, including the patios. There was only so much a manager could legislate.

  Inside, she found Lily sitting in one of the chairs in the waiting area, her hands tucked under her thighs. Her shoulders were drawn up under her ears, but when she saw Rose, she exhaled, stood up, and crossed the floor to the middle of the room.

  “I need to ask you a favor.” Her hands were by her sides, one fingernail digging into the soft flesh around her thumbnail. “Woman to woman.”

  Rose swallowed hard. “And what is that?”

  “I need this job.” For all her fidgeting, her voice was surprisingly sure and steady. “And not only that, I need a place to live.”

  Rose hadn’t expected that. “You . . . I thought you lived in Foley.”

  “I do, but only for the next two days. After that . . .” Lily held up her hands. “Well, I’m pretty much homeless.” She gave a small laugh, though Rose couldn’t see what in the world was funny about either her words or her situation.

  Lily’s gaze swung from Rose to the front window and the afternoon light beyond. For a brief moment—just a flash, really—her face tightened. Some kind of dark emotion pushed to the surface, and she covered her lips with her fingertips. Then, just as quickly, it was all gone. She passed her hand over her hair and straightened her shoulders, her voice steady as a sailboat sitting on dry land.

  “Even if it’s just for a little while. I know you don’t know me, and I’m not sure you even like me very much, which makes this all the more crazy, but I’m asking you anyway. I can do the job. I promise. I can cut hair well. I can make clients happy.” She paused and swallowed. Then her voice picked up a notch. “I can even do more. You must have a lot on your plate being the only manager, from what I can tell. I can answer phones, run errands, do any tasks you need me to do around here. I’m not afraid to work hard. I just . . .” She breathed in a breath as big as the world, then blew it out and shrugged her shoulders. “I just need a place to live for a while. Until I figure some things out.”

  Rose pursed her lips. She should let her down easy, and now. Say her qualifications weren’t enough to offer her the job. And it was true. She’d be foolish to hire someone like this, practically on a whim, to take care of the hairdressing needs of a gaggle of mouthy seniors. Now, the extra work she spoke of—Rose could use that kind of help.

  But a certain level of trust was necessary to bring a new person into the life of the village. She couldn’t hire just anyone, no matter how much the woman needed a job.

  Rose adjusted the visor on her head and crossed her arms, thought for a moment. She wanted to tell the woman she was indeed crazy, asking if she could move in five seconds after driving through the gates, expecting Rose to roll out a red carpet when she could be anybody—a thief, a spy, or one of those telemarketers who takes advantage of old people. Who knew?

  Rose looked away and pinched the bridge of her nose. She sighed. “Well, you don’t look crazy.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Say I do offer you this job. What happens if your circumstances change and you have to leave just as quickly as you got here? Am I going to be in this same position in a month, having to look for yet another hairdresser to work here because you left us high and dry in the middle of the night?” She propped her hands on her hips, her best attempt at intimidation.

  “I won’t do that to you.”

  “But how can I trust you?”

  “You can’t.” Lily shrugged. “Not yet. All I can do is promise not to leave you high and dry. I want to work here. I won’t let you down.”

  “Can you afford to live here? The rent isn’t cheap in this area. And I can’t possibly let you stay free of charge.”

  “I don’t expect you to, and I do have a little money. And maybe if you let me help in the office, my pay could go toward my rent instead.”

  “Rent,” Rose repeated. She rubbed her forehead and chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Honey, where’s your husband?”

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes were red but not damp, and a fire burned in them, like an ember that refused to die out. She swallowed hard. “But he’s not my husband anymore. Or he won’t be as soon as I sign the papers.”

  Rose closed her eyes and tried to gather her thoughts. This girl’s a grade A mess. No doubt about it. But then she sighed. She didn’t know everything about the residents in her village, but she knew most people’s lives were messy to some degree. And her own l
ife? One mistake after another.

  She may be a mess, but aren’t we all? Who was Rose to deny this young woman a place to land for the summer, a chance to breathe and figure out whatever needed figuring out? Her answer to Terry could wait a little bit.

  She spoke before she could change her mind. “I suppose the space upstairs is just sitting empty. Having someone living up there would keep the mold from setting in.”

  Lily laughed, a quick burst. “So does that mean . . .”

  “I’ve haven’t seen you cut a single hair, but Lord help me, I’m going to give you the job.” Lily grinned and Rose held up one finger. “We’ll start with a trial period. We’ll see how things go. If you like it and everyone likes you—and be warned, this crew can be quite particular—then we’ll move forward. But I wouldn’t count your chickens yet.”

  “Understood.”

  Pausing for a moment of mental reshuffling, Rose waited for the dust to settle on her new reality. She suspected Lily was doing the same.

  “Do you mind if I look around upstairs?”

  Rose held out her arm in the direction of the corner stairs. “Be my guest.”

  While Lily ascended the steps two at a time, Rose stayed behind in the makeshift salon. She took off her visor and smoothed her hands over her bun pulled tight at the back. What in the world had she just gotten herself into? And what was she thinking, welcoming this unknown person—and whatever past she was dragging behind her—into her carefully constructed life? She’d been just fine with her obstinate roses, her stack of paperbacks, and her Monday night dinner dates, yet here she was inviting trouble. Not just inviting it, but opening wide the gate and practically ushering it in.

  But Rose couldn’t deny the ache she’d felt emanating from Lily as she’d stood there in the center of the salon, asking for help. Rose had felt that ache as if it were her own. The very blood in her veins had thrummed in anguish, as if for a moment she were Lily. She’d be lying if she said it hadn’t rattled her, and she wasn’t in the habit of lying to herself.