The Summer House

by Lauren K. Denton

Rose turned her face back to the water and stretched her legs out in front of her like her nephew. The sun was a blazing fraction of light now—partly there, mostly gone. She’d seen countless sunsets just like it, and more than half of them from this very spot, but they never failed to put her in her place.

  “Business decision, huh?” Rawlins set his empty plate on the table just as the last sliver of sun drifted below the horizon. “If you say so.”

  Rose set her plate on top of his and noticed his empty milk glass. “How’s that milk treating you?”

  A half smile. “Just fine. I seem to be drinking a fair amount of it these days.”

  “Well, it’s good for you, you know. Good for your bones.”

  “That’s what I hear. Good for keeping me out of trouble too.”

  She made a noise of assent that she hoped was encouraging. She didn’t want to shut down his talking, his enjoyment of the evening, by saying the wrong thing.

  “You doing okay?” she ventured. It was always easier talking about trivial matters—pound cake, Coach Beaumont—than real things. She knew to be careful of unseen cracks in the path.

  Rawlins exhaled, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. “I’m fine.” He turned to her when she didn’t respond. “Really, Aunt Rose. I’m good.”

  “Well, I’m glad.” She reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m always here for you. Whatever you need. I know your dad and I haven’t . . .” She let the words trail off. After all this time, there was nowhere for them to go.

  “I know. You haven’t.” He hung his head and studied his thumbnail. “I’ve never understood it.” He looked back up at her from under the brim of his cap. “You’re adults. Why can’t you just talk it out and move past it?”

  Rose clasped her hands in her lap and squeezed. The naïveté of the young. To think she and Jim could just have a little chat and put it all behind them.

  “You should try to talk to him,” Rawlins said.

  “He doesn’t want to talk to me. I’ve tried over the years. What happened between us . . . Well, it was a long time ago.”

  Rose fell silent, remembering the day in the somber church as if thirty-two years hadn’t passed by in a blink. When the service was over, the sanctuary had been still except for the sound of her brother’s weeping that bounced off every surface and soul-wounded everyone within earshot. She used to be glad Rawlins had only been two at the time, too young to know what was really happening, but lately she’d been thinking about how much he had missed out on, not having his mother around as he grew up. Rose cared for him now—and Hazel too—as well as she could, but she knew she didn’t take the place of a real mother.

  Rawlins rubbed his palms together and stood. “He mentioned you the other day. Maybe the ice is thawing.” He grabbed their plates with one hand and reached the other one down to help her up.

  She thought of the last time she’d seen Jim. She’d run into the five-and-dime store on the island to look for a cheap tablecloth to cover the burn mark on the clubhouse card table, left there after Violet Abernathy’s sewing machine caught fire. He’d been reading the label on a bottle of Formula 409, his reading glasses perched low on his nose, his hair as gray as hers and just as thick. She’d almost burst into tears there in the cleaning supply aisle, thinking of her brother’s long years without Stella, as well as her own long years without him.

  She turned and hurried out of the store without speaking, unable to withstand the possibility of seeing him turn away from her again.

  “Maybe you should come see him,” Rawlins said. “Call first, though. Probably best not to catch him off guard.”

  Rose chuckled. “You think?” She picked up their empty milk glasses and followed him back into her cottage.

  He set the plates in the sink. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About calling Dad?”

  “I think that ship has sailed. I think it’s long gone by now.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” He pulled keys out of his pocket and moved toward her front door. “Don’t you . . .” He hesitated, his brow creased, then shrugged and reached for the doorknob.

  She stopped him. “Don’t I what?”

  He shrugged. “He’s your only family. Other than me and Hazel. Do you really think my mom would want the two of you to still be fighting like this?”

  It’s not a fight if we’re not talking to each other.

  “Just think about it, okay?” He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. The eastern sky was dark purple and studded with pinpricks of light. Crickets hummed in the trees. Rose’s favorite time of day.

  “Let me know if she needs any more help?”

  Rose shook her head in confusion. “Who?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Your new hire. Lily.”

  “Oh. Right.” She picked up the gardening gloves she’d dropped by the door that morning, hitting them against the side of her leg. “I’ll do that.”

  He nodded. “Let me know if you need anything too. It’s a busy week, but I’m around if you need me.”

  Rose found herself fighting a lump in her throat, so she just nodded. She almost mentioned Terry’s email and the proposition it held, letting him know things around here might be changing, but she bit her tongue. “Don’t forget about this weekend. Saturday night.”

  “Summer Kickoff. How could I forget?”

  “Everyone will expect to see you there.”

  “All they care about is making sure I bring shrimp.”

  “That’s true. But the ladies like you. I think you’re the main reason Janelle Blackmon comes. Well, you and the dancing. She doesn’t turn down a chance to shake her bottom in front of a crowd of people.”

  He closed his eyes. “That woman. Last year she wouldn’t quit pinching my . . . well, nowhere a grown man wants to be pinched.”

  Rose laughed. “Citronella spray. Use it liberally. She hates the smell.”

  His eyes widened. “I’ll do it.”

  When he was halfway to his truck, she called to him. “Thanks for coming. It always does me good to see you.”

  “I know. That’s why I come every week.” He turned and walked the rest of the way to his truck. At the door, he called over his shoulder. “It does me good to see you too.” His smile—easy, honest, laying bare his tender boy’s heart—was a gift. “See you in a few days.”

  She waited until he started his truck and drove off, one arm out the window in a wave. Back inside her neat, clean, uncluttered cottage, she felt its quiet—its solitude—as both a comfort and a wound.

  Nine

  Dear Stella,

  Rawlins came over tonight. He’s a good boy. A good one. I don’t know what that Chrissy was thinking—there are no greener pastures. And right after he’d talked to me about giving her your ring. Praise the Lord for small blessings, she left before he handed it over. He’s too good for her anyway. His heart is too pure. Don’t worry—I’d never say that to his face. He’d get all quiet as he does sometimes, head off on that boat of his, turn off his GPS, and we wouldn’t hear from him for a week.

  There’s a new girl here. I just hired her to take Beverly’s place at the salon. If it appears she can do two things at once, I’m hoping to use her in the office at some point as well. The older I get, the less I seem able to juggle all I need to. You sure would’ve been better at all this than I am. Everyone here would’ve just eaten you up. You’d probably get Christmas cards and book club invitations. Shoot, you’d probably be first in line to do Coach Beaumont’s silly paddleboat tours. Everyone would love you.

  But instead they get me. And who knows, maybe they’d be happy to hear someone is interested in buying the place from me. From me and Terry. That’s right, I have a chance to let this village go, which would probably be a nice full-circle moment, seeing as how this place came to be because of another letting go. A bigger one. Maybe I should just tell Terry yes now, hand the new owner my keys, and bid my farewells. I don
’t know yet.

  I often think about our choices back then. My choices, I mean. I think about mine. Mine were the ones that got all jumbled and turned sour.

  Do you remember when we first met? That day is seared in my mind with such clarity, as if it happened only a little while ago. Jim and I were eating lunch at that little café on Gay Street. I remember how sticky the menus were and how famished Jim was after the drive up to Auburn from the island and unloading his truck at my apartment. He was so hungry he ordered two cheeseburgers. He’d already eaten the first one before you showed up standing next to our booth with a sweet smile, saying you recognized me from our biology class.

  I remembered you too. You were the girl who always sat in the front row, your blonde hair in a perfect long braid, always raising your hand with right answers. When I asked if you wanted to sit down, Jim got so flustered he knocked over his Coke bottle. Do you remember that? You probably thought he was just clumsy, but that wasn’t it. My little brother may have had appalling table manners and a bad habit of leaving piles of stinky, fish-smelling clothes in the bathroom, but he was careful and methodical to a fault. Shrimpers have to be. No, he was nervous, his heart already beating with affection for you, even on that very first day.

  He barely noticed when Terry Carrigan sat down out of the blue, introducing himself and shaking hands like he was the mayor, thanking us for offering him the very last seat in the entire restaurant. We found out about his family money later, but even in the moment, I think all three of us knew there was something different about him. Something that both attracted and repelled us.

  Sometimes I think back on that day. That random day when all four of us just happened to end up at the same booth, all thrown together by a hand we couldn’t see. What if I’d had lunch ready for Jim at the apartment when he arrived? What if Terry had grabbed a burger down the street, or if the only open seat had been at someone else’s table? Would the four of us have become friends? Would our lives have turned out differently?

  That’s a rabbit hole if I’ve ever seen one, and I often have to haul my mind out of it or I’d be lost forever. It’s tempting to ponder the possibilities, though. Especially the thought of what would have happened had Terry never sat down. If he hadn’t, you and I might be sitting at my kitchen table—or yours—having this conversation over a cup of decaf instead of me writing these letters, mooning over things that happened so many years ago they shouldn’t even matter.

  But they do matter. I know they do. And I live with the regret of it all.

  Love,

  Rose

  * * *

  Rose stood from her kitchen table and walked quietly up the stairs, though there was no one around to disturb, even if she’d stomped hard on each step. Sometimes she wanted to do just that—stomp, jump, even dance her way up the stairs and back down, just because she could. But she’d yet to summon the nerve.

  The dresser in her bedroom used to belong to her mother. After Rose’s actions all those years ago, she figured she’d be cut entirely from any inheritance she might receive when her mom passed away, but surprisingly, her mother left her several pieces of her best furniture. Best in this case was a loose term, as nothing in her parents’ home would be featured in any catalog or department store showroom. But her mother did have a few nice things, items passed to her from her own parents, furniture that had stood the test of time and would no doubt continue to do so because it was well made by capable hands.

  Rose’s favorite piece was the Victorian highboy dresser that sat against the far wall of her bedroom, positioned between two windows. Solid oak with dovetail joints and a hazy mirror on top. In the bottom drawer, way in the back behind the carefully folded sweaters she kept in case the temperature dipped below sixty, was the manila envelope. She pulled it out and smoothed her hand over the top, feeling the various lumps and bumps inside. She slid tonight’s letter inside with all the rest and patted the top, then tucked it away again, back into the drawer.

  The Village Vine

  Your Source for Neighborhood News

  May 23, 2018

  Compiled by Shirley Ferrill

  Good day, Safe Harbor Village!

  Tides

  The next low tide will fall in the 3:15–3:30 a.m. range, so please set your alarm clocks. Last Tuesday when the tide was at its lowest, a certain villager strolling along the shore was startled to see a complete set of dentures lying in a clump of seagrass. This made me wonder what other treasures may have been dropped, accidentally or otherwise. If we could all take a quick peek at this next low tide, it’d do a world of good to clean up our shores. (And if the owner of the dentures would like them back, let me know. I’m keeping them in a mason jar under my sink.)

  Marine Life

  If you missed it in last Monday’s newsletter, a large manatee has been spotted in the mouth of the Bon Secour River, causing no small amount of worry. The marine authorities are at work, attempting to lure the poor lost creature back out into the bay rather than risk being bumped by a shrimp trawler or one of Coach’s paddleboats. If you happen to see the manatee, please give him a wide, respectful berth.

  Recreation

  The inaugural paddleboat tour was a success! No capsized boats and no belongings (or people) overboard. A big thank-you to Coach Beaumont, who worked so hard to secure the paddleboats for the village and for showing us the sights on the river. There was only one slight hitch—one of the boats hit a hidden cypress knee, which tore a tiny hole in the hull. Coach says not to worry. He can fix it with some epoxy.

  Summer Kickoff—this Saturday night!

  Festivities will kick off at 6:00 with Old Enough to Know Better starting at 7:00.

  If you’re bringing food, please have it ready no later than 5:30. We all know how antsy certain residents get if dinnertime is pushed back too far.

  As usual, Toots Baker is in charge of the cocktails, though this year she’s keeping mum on her selections. I’ve already asked her to go ahead and make an extra pitcher.

  Ten

  In the dead dark of night, something pulled Lily from sleep. She shot up in bed like a spark, scanning the strange room, the mounds of clothes and shoes and boxes, and it took several long moments before she realized where she was.

  A new place. Again.

  What had woken her? Rain splattered against the window, but it was a soft, nonthreatening patter. Her mind swam with vague shapes and faces, everything mingling together until she wondered, Dream or not dream? Thunder rumbled overhead, long and deep. Just as the echo faded, she heard something else, something softer, inside the house. A rustle, a stirring. Worth?

  She flung the sheets away and swung her legs to the floor. In a second she was out the bedroom door and down the hallway to the stairs. She started down them quickly, but she slowed as she reached the bottom, unsure of what she hoped to find. Her thin nightgown swirled around her knees, the cotton as light as breath, and her heart thumped.

  Downstairs was even darker, and the rain came harder now, a steady thrum like a fast-moving river. The rustle was still there, coming and going, though she couldn’t tell from where. She glanced around as shadows danced in the corners. When the sky lit up with a zip of lightning, the shadows retreated. Misshapen lumps became her new loveseat, the small kitchen island, the hooded hair dryer. And the rustle revealed itself to be a magazine lying on a side table, its pages stirred by the breeze from the ceiling fan. She wrapped her arms around herself as her heart’s rhythm slowed.

  It had rained the night Worth left. It had started sometime after he’d come to bed, after she’d fallen asleep with his arms around her and his damp cheek against the back of her neck. She never heard the rain, though. For that matter, she hadn’t heard Worth leaving either. She was oblivious to both until the next morning when she woke up to a rain-washed world outside her window and his note next to the coffee maker.

  Lily walked to the front door. When she pulled it open, heavy, moist air rushed in. The rain was starting
to slack again to a drizzle, and the light drops made a soft pat, pat, pat against the grass and leaves. She sat on the porch swing and took a deep breath, inhaling the salty scent of the bay mixed with the earthy, water-cleansed air of this new and strange land. Bon Secour. Safe Harbor.

  As the rain faded into mist, a tall, thin woman walked by on the street, passing under the streetlight. She held a leash, and at the end of the leash was the smallest dog Lily had ever seen. It wore a bright yellow rain jacket and hat with a strap under its chin. As Lily stared, the woman slowed and held up a hand in greeting. Lily waved back, and then the dog yipped and the woman hurried along behind it.

  Lily sat for several more quiet minutes, letting the cool night air wash from her mind the disorientation she’d felt moments before.

  This is home, she reminded herself. It may not be permanent, but nothing was, really. She was sure of that. All she could do was rest in the peace she already felt in this place. The certainty that this was the right step for right now. And that’s enough.

  Back in bed upstairs, she thought of her first home. A few miles from their house in Fox Hill, a hiking trail ran through the woods and ended at a breathtaking cliff. Down below was a sparkling blue-green lake fed by a waterfall that spilled from the rocks and plunged with enormous strength into the waters below. It scared Lily the first time she found it. Everything about it seemed dangerous—the loud, crashing water, the rocky places wet and slippery with algae, the prickly, ragged bushes that surrounded it. But one day she found her spot—a dry rock, warmed by the sun, the edges covered in a soft fur of moss. It was a bare area, a little space carved out of the wild just big enough for her. And there she’d rest, legs outstretched, her back against a boulder, the crisp, clean air filling her senses.