But then he rose from his chair to wrap his arm around her waist, his face wiped clean of discomfort. He kissed her cheek, and she tried to let the warmth and solidness of his body push her fears and doubts away.
Later she’d asked, “Who’s Delia?”
“She’s no one.” He shrugged, nonchalant. “Why?”
“She’s not no one. Her name stopped conversation.”
“She’s just . . . someone I used to know.”
“Used to date?”
“Something like that.” He shrugged again. “Our families were friends. But, Lily—you’re the woman I’m marrying.” He kissed her, and again she let his smile, his charisma, wash away her doubt.
A few days after that, at a shop near their house, Lily ran into Patton’s wife. She apologized for her husband and the “spot of awkwardness”—that’s what she called it—at their engagement party.
“Worth’s old girlfriend,” she’d said when Lily asked who Delia was. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard anything about her. Though not being from here, I guess it makes sense. Worth and Delia had been together practically since they were in diapers. Everyone thought they’d get married right after graduation, but she kept putting it off. Then she broke up with him. I hear she’s a big shot in Hollywood now.” She stopped when she saw the look on Lily’s face. “Worth’s just crazy about you, though. We’re all so happy for you.”
After that, Delia was never far from Lily’s mind, though she hadn’t mentioned the name again. Worth sure hadn’t. Yet there she was, smiling up from the black-and-white photo Worth’s mother had torn from the Atlanta newspaper and mailed to her son.
That’s our girl.
The date at the top of the page showed it was from a little over two weeks ago. Just before Worth disappeared.
Lily carefully folded the page along its original creases and set it on top of his nightstand. She stood and looked around their room. Her toiletry bag sat on the bathroom counter next to a bottle of Worth’s shaving cream. Her slippers were on the floor next to his tennis shoes. Everything physical intertwined, except for the deepest parts of their hearts. Those they kept locked away from each other. It had made their life together easier in some ways but harder in the ways that really mattered.
She shoved the pile of sheets into an empty laundry basket, dropped her toiletry bag and slippers on top, and propped the basket on her hip. She trailed her palm down the wall of the hallway as she passed through to the living room, taking it all in—the cream-and-pink silk pillows on the chairs, the expensive but uncomfortable couch, the carved cherry dining table and monogrammed dining chairs, all picked out by Mertha. It all had to go.
When she opened the front door, Rawlins and Canaan, both sitting on the top porch step, turned to her. “We would have started on the living room furniture, but I didn’t want to do anything without asking,” Rawlins said. “But if you’re ready . . .”
If you’re ready.
Her eyes burned and she had to look away.
“Lily?”
She blinked once, twice, then looked back to Rawlins. “I’m ready.”
He rubbed his hands together and nudged Canaan with his elbow. “Let’s get going then.”
“No, I’m finished. I’m done.” She shifted the basket on her hip. “This is it.”
His forehead wrinkled in confusion. “But your furniture . . .”
She shook her head. “I don’t need it. I’ve got everything I want to take with me.”
His mouth worked though his lips stayed closed. She could tell he wanted to ask, to question her rashness, her decision-making skills. But then he held up his hands. “Whatever you say.”
She grabbed her purse, locked the door behind her, and walked to her car in the driveway. When the two men didn’t move from where they stood on the porch, she gestured toward their truck. Rawlins shook his head and walked to her car, stopping next to her.
“You sure about this?” he asked quietly.
Lily bit her bottom lip and nodded.
“Okay then.”
As he turned away, she hesitated, then called out to him.
“Rawlins? Do you mind if we make a quick stop on the way?”
“Just show me where.”
* * *
They made a haphazard convoy pulling out of the neighborhood, with Lily’s car, Rawlins’s truck, and the small flatbed trailer piled with an assortment of Lily’s things. She took a left onto Highway 59 and didn’t look back.
A few miles down the road, she spied the small building that had caught her eye the first week they’d arrived. The sign said Mary’s Antiques and Thrift. The building itself looked shabby but loved, with rocking chairs on the long porch, pink flowers cascading out of terra-cotta pots, and two cats lying in a spot of sunshine in the grass out front. To the side of the shop was a collection of old shutters and cast-off architectural pieces—corbels, columns, pieces of old gates. It was the type of place she loved to browse, but knowing Worth couldn’t stomach thrifted items in their home, she hadn’t yet made a stop at Mary’s.
She turned on her blinker and pulled into the small parking lot in front of the shop. Rawlins followed, but unable to fit the truck and trailer into a parking space, he pulled alongside the building and rolled down his window. She rolled down her passenger window.
“This is where you wanted to stop?” he called.
“Do you mind? I’m just going to take a quick look around.”
The place reminded her of the types of places her mother liked to shop. Never one to pay full price for anything—and unable to do so, even if she wanted to—Lillian Chapman had always found just the right things at thrift and secondhand stores. Most of the furnishings in their home had once graced the homes of other families, families who upgraded into nicer things and donated their castoffs, not knowing they would end up in Lillian’s home, adding to the warm, cozy, mix-and-match atmosphere Lily grew up in. The atmosphere she didn’t realize she loved until she was firmly ensconced in the world of her husband, who couldn’t abide anything secondhand or less than perfect.
Now that Lily had left most everything behind in the rental house, she had hardly a stick of furniture to her name. She hoped to find a few things at Mary’s that would make the cottage in Safe Harbor Village feel like home.
When she opened the door to the shop, a wind chime hanging from the ceiling announced her presence.
“Come on in,” came a woman’s voice from another room. “Make yourself at home.”
Lily meandered between furniture in all sorts of styles—mid-century chairs next to cannonball bed frames, simple pine dining tables standing close to rich mahogany ones. Dried flower arrangements, lamps, framed artwork, vases and cups holding old silver spoons and serving utensils. A rusty wheelbarrow filled with wreaths made from pieces of driftwood. And everywhere her eye landed, palm trees—ceramic, glass, concrete, even crocheted.
The wind chime jangled again, and just as Rawlins walked inside, a woman came up from the back, wiping her hands on a towel. “Looking for anything specific today?” She looked like Mrs. Claus, with short gray hair, glasses perched on the end of her nose, and a bright red T-shirt. When she saw Rawlins, she stuck her hands on her hips and smiled. “Well, look who the cat dragged in.”
He gave the woman a hug. “Good to see you, Mrs. Mary.” He nodded his head toward Lily. “I think my new friend here needs a little help.”
“Is that so?” She straightened her glasses and peered at Lily.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m moving and I need some new things. Well, new to me at least. And it’s a small place, so I don’t need much.”
“Okay.” Mary rubbed her hands together. “So, are we talking accessories? Knickknacks and whatnot? I just got some new mirrors in and a whole bunch of baskets. Let me show you what I have back here—”
“Actually, I need furniture.”
“Well, even better. What kind of things do you need?”
“A bed, for starters,” Lily said. “And
a kitchen table and chairs. Maybe a small couch.”
Mary propped a hand on her hip and stared at Lily. “Sounds like you’re starting over.”
Lily nodded. “I am, actually.”
The older woman appeared to think for a moment, then exhaled. “Okay then. Follow me.”
Lily looked back at Rawlins, feeling like she should explain, but he’d already turned back toward the door. “I’ll wait outside.”
Within minutes, Mary had walked Lily through the entire shop, all five winding, twisting rooms and hallways, and had stuck a piece of blue painter’s tape on a handful of items: a blond wood kitchen table with four spindle-backed dining chairs, a deep-seated chair in a pretty watermelon color—“a great reading chair,” Mary said—a cream loveseat with floral pillows, and a full-size four-poster bed. She even had a mattress for it, still wrapped in plastic.
“I hope you know what a steal you’re getting with all this stuff. A lady came in just yesterday and unloaded almost a whole house-worth of furniture. She’s starting over too, but with a new husband who lives on Ono Island. I imagine she’ll be getting much nicer things . . . not that this stuff isn’t nice.”
“No, I think it’s perfect, actually.” The furniture they’d picked out felt cheerful and cozy. She hadn’t felt that way about most of the things that had already filled up Worth’s house when she moved in.
“I’m glad to hear it. We got you fixed up, for sure. And lucky you, you’ve got someone here to help you get it to your new home.”
Lily found Rawlins and Canaan on the porch outside the shop. “Do you mind giving us a hand with a few more things?”
An hour later they were back on their way, the trailer now full to capacity. Lily’s back seat was full too. Mary had added a few lamps, two area rugs, several panels of eyelet lace curtains—“call me if they’re not the right length. I’m handy with a sewing machine”—and two white Pottery Barn end tables, priced at $20 each.
“Seriously?” Lily had asked. “You should probably charge more than that.”
Mary shrugged. “I set my own prices. For you, they’re $20 apiece.” Then she leaned closer and whispered, “I started over once too.” She winked. “It wasn’t easy, but it was the best thing I ever did.”
Back on the road and headed to the village, Lily pondered Mary’s words. The best thing I ever did. No way could Lily say that right now. Part of her felt like she should be back at the house in Pelican Cove, sticking close in case Worth came back. Calling his cell and demanding some sort of explanation from him. Or at least clarification.
But she had a hunch things were as clear as they were going to get. And even if she did talk to him, what would she say? She couldn’t deny the number of times over the course of the last year she’d wondered what freedom would feel like—the freedom to do things differently, to choose another path for her life. Maybe even pack her own bag and slip away.
If she’d followed through on her middle-of-the-night musings and anxiety-fueled dreams, though, where would she have gone? For better or worse, she’d linked herself with Worth, and where he went, she followed.
Except this time he left and following was impossible. Part of her wished she had someone around to tell her what to do, but at the same time she thrilled at the thought of being in charge of her own life. Her next steps were up to her, solely and completely. And here she was, buying secondhand furniture to fill a small cottage by the bay where she’d live and work among strangers. Given the alternative, she felt pretty darn good about it.
Seven
It took Lily, Rawlins, and Canaan far longer than they’d thought to unload his truck, her car, and the trailer. Almost every time they brought in one box or piece of furniture, they’d walk outside to find yet another neighbor standing in the driveway or on the front porch of the cottage. Having read about Lily’s imminent arrival in Shirley’s special edition of The Village Vine, they all came bearing food. A petite woman named Ida brought a pot of corn chowder, and the man on the golf cart she’d met last week—Coach something—showed up with a platter of fried chicken. None of them stuck around—they just said hello and handed over the food and often a bottle of wine or pitcher of tea—and by late afternoon her kitchen table was full of disposable aluminum containers and Tupperware bowls. “If nothing else, you’ll eat well around here,” Rawlins said, sidestepping the heavy-laden kitchen table to bring in a dining chair.
“You’re welcome to take any of this.” Lily gestured to the wild assortment of food and drink. “You two haven’t stopped all day, and I didn’t even think about lunch. I should be a better hostess.”
“You haven’t stopped either. And I’d say moving day is a good reason to set aside any hostess duties.”
With the final box unloaded and the last lamp in place, she sat in her new pink chair tucked into a corner of the den and rubbed the balls of her feet. Across the room, Rawlins lifted one side of the loveseat and smoothed out a wrinkle in the rug underneath.
“Mrs. Mary was really helpful. Is she a friend of yours?”
“She’s a family friend. Her husband worked with my dad for a long time. Hank was one of the best shrimpers around.”
“Shrimper?”
“Yeah. Shrimp boats.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Hank worked mostly on the Mary Lou, but he’d come out with me from time to time.”
“So you’re a shrimper too?”
“Yep. The season starts next Monday.”
Through the French doors at the back of the cottage, they heard Canaan’s booming voice. “Time to roll, Boss.”
Lily stood and faced Rawlins, who was already at the front door, looking like he was ready to wash his hands of Lily and all her furniture. “I can’t thank you enough for your help today. Both of you. I’m not sure how I would have managed all this on my own.”
“It’s nothing. I’m glad we could help.”
“It’s not nothing. You don’t even know me and you gave up your whole day with nothing in return. I want to pay you for your time.” Lily reached for her purse lying on a chair by the door.
“No, no. Really.”
“What about some food then? Are you sure you don’t want to take anything?” Lily gestured toward the table. “I’ll never be able to eat it all before it goes bad.”
He smiled. “Nah, it’s okay. I’ll be out on the water most of the week.”
“I thought the season didn’t start until Monday.”
He rubbed the side of his face. Fatigue showed in his eyes. “It doesn’t. Not officially. Sometimes I’d just rather be on the water than on land.”
“Does your boat have a name?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Miss Stella. My mother’s name.”
“Are all the boats named after women?”
“We only name them after the good ones.”
Lily smiled, and then Canaan opened the door and stuck his head through the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, but I gotta get moving. Elijah’s at the Land tonight.”
“Right.” Rawlins turned back to her. “We’re off then.” He tapped his knuckles on the side table by the loveseat. “If you need anything else, Rose knows how to get me.”
“She sure does,” Canaan chided, one eyebrow lifted. “And she doesn’t hesitate to call on you whenever she needs any little thing.”
“As if you don’t come running too.”
“That’s just because she gives me roses to take back to Lea. Gets me out of the doghouse for running off to help an old woman instead of sticking around to help my own wife.” He tipped his floppy Hooker hat. “Nice to meet you, Lily. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
Rawlins followed him out. On the porch, he paused. “Folks around here can be a little feisty. The men as much as the women. But they’re nice. I think you’ll like it here.”
“Thank you.”
He hesitated, and the moment stretched a hair longer than was comfortable. To break the tension, Lily spoke the first words that popped into her mind.
“Let me know if you need a haircut.”
He lifted his ball cap and ran a hand over his hair. “I’ll do that.”
From the doorway she watched him climb into the truck. He cast one more glance toward the cottage, where she stood in the falling light, before driving away.
* * *
The night of Worth and Lily’s one-year anniversary, Mertha planned a party, though it had nothing to do with celebrating their year-old marriage. Instead, it was to fete Bishop Lumber’s longest-standing clients, a way to thank them for years of business.
“She’s only doing it to butter them up, fill them with Sazeracs and hope they’ll divulge the names of any friends who might be good leads,” Worth said as he struggled with his bow tie in front of their bedroom mirror. Of course the party was black-tie.
“It makes good business sense,” he continued. “I just can’t believe she planned it on our anniversary.”
Lily had no trouble believing it. When Worth had first brought it up to Mertha—“Seriously, Mother? You could have picked any other night”—Mertha had apologized profusely.
“I don’t know where my head was, forgetting your anniversary like that. And I hate that it can’t be moved. It’s the only date I could book the caterer and the sommelier at the same time. You two can celebrate another night, can’t you?”
Her words had been sweet as honey, but Lily heard the satisfaction in them.
Lily reached over to straighten his bow tie, and Worth grabbed her hand. “I’m really sorry. I wish tonight could just be about us,” he said, remorse written on his face in the thin crease between his eyes and the worry at the edges of his mouth.
Lily kissed him there. “It’s fine.”
That night, once the dessert trays had made the rounds and after-dinner drinks were poured, Mertha and Worth’s sister, Lydia, cornered him as he and Lily stood to the side of the bar set up out back.
“Did you hear about John Albright?” Mertha asked, her tone sharp. “He’s decided to go with Dixon Lumber.” She kept a tight smile on her face as her gaze slid to the small knot of guests to their right. It would not do for the host of the party to appear distressed.
The Summer House Page 7