“You’re a girl. She’s a girl. You both love cooking and eating and . . . I don’t know, flowers? And you know Hazel—she’s a great kid. Easy. Happy.”
Rose sighed. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. Hazel is wonderful. I just don’t . . . She’d probably get bored with me. And how long are you talking, anyway? Every night? All week?”
“No, of course not. Tara’s schedule will fluctuate, and I won’t be out on the boat as much as I usually am. Dad is slowly passing some responsibilities to me, finally, so I’ll be in the office more than years past. Hazel can come with me on those days. It’ll just be here and there that I may need some extra help.”
“Well. You try to let me know ahead of time, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Rawlins grinned. “I’d hate to get in the way of your shuffleboard games.”
Rose swiped the dish towel off the counter and threw it at him. “There’s no shuffleboard here, thank you very much. Not that I’d play it if there was.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he said in soothing tones meant as a joke, but that only served to raise her hackles. “You don’t get involved with the residents. I forgot.”
“It’s easier that way,” she said firmly. “No one wants the manager poking her head into everyone’s business.”
“It’s not poking your head in if you just start a conversation. Or try out the paddleboats. Join a book club.”
“For Pete’s sake, Rawlins.” She worked to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Why do you care if I do any of that? Why does it matter to you so much?”
He stared at her for a moment like he was trying to figure her out, and Rose had such a strong memory of his mother, Stella, that she had to prop a hand against the counter to steady herself. Stella had stared at Rose in that same way the day she found out Terry had proposed to Rose. It was a look that said, I thought I knew you, but maybe I don’t really know you at all. Finally he looked away, shrugged, and shook his head, and the moment was gone. “I just worry about you sometimes. The way you always keep to yourself. I don’t like to think of you as lonely.”
“Who said anything about lonely? I’ve been living here for forty years. Most of those years on my own.” She tapped her fingernail on the counter. “I think I’ve had enough time to figure out how I like to do things. And that’s how I do them.”
He held up his hands. “Understood. I’m sorry.”
“And anyway, I should be the one worrying about you and your loneliness. You’re a nice young man, Rawlins. You—”
“I know. I know. I should find myself a nice young woman.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “Just because it didn’t work out once doesn’t mean you’re out of chances.”
He stood and pushed his stool under the counter and leaned over to where she stood. “I could say the same thing to you.” He kissed her cheek, then pulled away. “I’m going to go find Coach and get the tents and tables from the rec house,” he said on his way out the door. “I’ll tell Hazel the coffee cake is almost ready.”
“Hang on now, we still have—” Rose turned to check the timer, but it dinged as soon as she picked it up.
“It’s ready!” Hazel yelled from the front door. She skidded into the kitchen, dirt and grass scattering over Rose’s spotless tile floor. “Can I have a big piece?” She grinned. A streak of dirt was smeared straight across her forehead.
“Well, I suppose that wouldn’t hurt anything, would it?”
* * *
After one Summer Kickoff picnic several years ago that had included music and dancing, the grass was so trampled from feet and soggy from spilled drinks that a large section of sod had to be replaced, taking out a chunk of that year’s homeowners’ fees Rose had earmarked for new doggy doo trash cans. Ever since, Rose had ordered a temporary dance floor to protect the ground. Everyone thought she was doing it out of the kindness of her heart, to provide a firmer place for everyone to practice their moves, but really it was all in the name of saving the grass.
This year she’d ordered materials to make the dance floor even larger, though when she saw the size of it—taking up about a quarter of the open grassy area next to the pool and overlooking the bay—she almost second-guessed herself. But then she remembered how much space it took for forty senior citizens to line dance to “Y.M.C.A.,” and she was glad she’d planned ahead.
Not enjoying the feel of last-minute stress, Rose had planned everything to a T in the days and weeks leading up to the party, and by two o’clock, everything was as ready as it could be. Tables were set out on the grass, waiting for their bounty, white tents spread out against the pale blue sky, and garbage barrels placed at regular intervals to prevent a trash disaster in the morning. The temporary dance floor was opposite the pool with space for the members of Peter Gold’s bluegrass band, Old Enough to Know Better, to set up their banjos, mandolins, and Peter’s stand-up bass.
In the cottage, Rose and Hazel played three games of Go Fish, almost as many games of Old Maid, consumed half the coffee cake, and sprinkled paprika on the deviled eggs. When they went back outside to check on the men, Coach pronounced them parched.
“I don’t know about you all, but I could use one of Roberta’s famous Coke floats.” He leaned down to Hazel. “Have you ever had a Coke float?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide, taking in his tousled hair, his big grin, his bushy eyebrows that made him look like he was always in on a joke.
“A scoop of ice cream in the bottom of a glass with ice-cold Coca Cola poured on top. Most people use plain old vanilla, but I prefer chocolate chip.”
He started walking, leading the way to the café. Hazel whispered to Rawlins, “Can I have chocolate chip too?”
“Maybe. But you have to have some real food first.”
A golf cart drew up beside them on the road. The driver, Seymour Eldins—the village’s oldest resident, who lived with his much younger live-in nurse—extended his arm out toward Coach, his hand balled up into a fist.
“Seymour!” Coach called with his usual vigor. He bumped his own fist against Seymour’s as if that was a normal way to greet acquaintances. “You coming to the party tonight?”
“Sure am,” the old man said, his voice strong with only a hint of gravel. It was always surprising to hear such a bold, almost melodic voice coming from a body so wizened with age. Rose had heard that Seymour used to sing with the Baldwin County Choral Singers. “Angie said I can stay until nine.”
“That’ll give you plenty of time to get a few dances in.” Coach shuffled his feet around a few times before glancing at Rose. “Maybe a little do-si-do with Rose?”
“I think not.” Rose set her jaw in what she hoped was flippant defiance. “I don’t dance.”
Coach took a step toward her. “I’m not sure I believe that about you, but I’ll let it slide.”
The nerve of that man, always acting like he knew her better than she knew herself. She straightened her shirt and took a step back. No need to let any of his sloppiness—what grown man went around wearing wrinkled shirts and flip-flops?—rub off on her.
“Seymour, good to see you.” Rose turned to where Rawlins and Hazel stood a few steps away. Rawlins had a sly look on his face. “I think I’ll skip lunch. I have plenty to eat at home. I’ll see you two when you finish with”—she glanced at Coach—“your float.”
“Come on, Rose. No need to run off. I was just kidding about the dancing.” Behind him, Seymour zoomed off on his golf cart, likely exceeding the strict fifteen miles per hour policy within the village. “I wouldn’t let you dance with him anyway. Word is, he has wandering hands.”
“I bet Janelle wouldn’t mind that,” Rawlins said, prompting a burst of laughter from Coach.
“He’s right, Rose. Come on to lunch.”
Rose felt Hazel’s hand slide into hers. “You can have some of my float.”
Rose drew her lips into a thin line and shot a look at her nephew, then looked down at Hazel.
Her green eyes were wide and bright. So much innocence in such a small face. “Just for you, Hazel. If it weren’t for you, I’d leave these two loonies behind.”
Hazel pulled Rose along toward the café, while Coach and Rawlins lagged a few paces behind, talking in low, serious voices about Auburn’s chances for a good season in the fall.
When she and Hazel reached the glass door, Lily was just approaching it from the other side. Rose took a step back to allow Lily to exit, but in the process she bumped into Coach, who hadn’t realized Rose had stopped.
Coach let out an “Oomph” of surprise as his hand brushed against Rose’s lower back, his fingertips gentle points of pressure. He pulled away quickly. “Rose, I’m sorry.” His eyebrows pulled together in concern. “Are you okay?”
To her consternation, she still felt the imprint of his hand on the skin of her back. “I’m just fine,” she managed. “You?”
“No worse for the wear.” He turned to the doorway. “Lily!” Coach boomed. “You’re just in time. We’re coming in for Coke floats. Can I order you one?”
“Oh no, I . . .” She held up the container in her hands. “I picked up some gumbo to take home.” She looked at Rose. “You said her gumbo would be the best I’d ever tasted.”
“And it will be. Did you get some crackers?”
Lily held up a white paper bag in her other hand.
Next to her, Hazel hopped from one foot to the other. “Come on!”
Rawlins put a hand on her shoulder. “Patience, Haze,” he whispered. When he straightened up, he nodded at Lily. “Good to see you again.”
Lily smiled. “You too.” She looked down at Hazel again.
“This is my daughter,” Rawlins said, sensing Lily’s uncertainty. “Hazel.”
Lily breathed in deep and her shoulders dropped a little. “Hi, Hazel. I like your swimsuit.”
When Hazel didn’t answer, Rawlins nudged her. “What do you say?” he whispered.
“Thank you,” Hazel said obediently.
“You sure you don’t want to stay and eat with us?” Coach asked.
“No, it’s okay. I need to . . .” Lily looked across the road toward her cottage. “I should get on back.”
“Are you coming to the party?” Hazel was bouncing on the balls of her feet now, yanking Rose’s arm each time she launched herself off the ground. “I’m going to jump off the diving board. My daddy’s going to catch me.”
Lily’s eyebrows lifted in surprise and she let out a little laugh. “Is that so?”
“Uh-huh. I was scared to jump off the diving board last summer. But I’m bigger now.” She thrust her hand high in the air, still keeping Rose’s hand in a firm grip.
“Okay, big girl,” Rawlins said, pulling her hand from Rose’s and gently tugging her toward the door. “Let’s get you inside.” He turned to Lily and gave a small, almost apologetic smile as he slipped in the door after Hazel.
Coach grabbed the door. “The offer still stands,” he said to Lily. “If you want a ride, I can drive you to the party in style.”
Lily smiled. “It’s okay. I’ll be glad to walk.”
When Coach was gone, Rose faced Lily. “You doing okay? Settling in?”
Lily nodded. “I’m good. I have everything ready. For clients, I mean.”
“Happy to hear it.” Rose waited, but Lily just glanced inside at the rest of the group standing at the counter where Roberta waited to take their orders. Lily had pulled her hair up into a knot at the back of her head. Wavy pieces fell down around her face, and in the sunlight the red shone through the dark brown like copper ribbons. Lily’s beauty wasn’t common—something in her face was startling, a beauty that sneaked up on you. Her brown eyes were thick-lashed and a little bit weary.
“You’re sure you’re okay.” Rose wasn’t usually one to double-check. People were as they said they were. But something about Lily made her feel off balance, like she was on a boat and needed to reach out a hand to keep steady.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Just . . .” She shrugged. “Just getting used to a new place.”
“Well.” Rose glanced inside to where Rawlins had lifted Hazel up onto a counter stool so she could watch Roberta behind the counter, pouring a bottle of Coke over a parfait glass of ice cream. Chocolate chip. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Lily walked away, the paper bag under her arm and the Styrofoam container of gumbo in both hands. Watching her from the door, Rose wished she could wrap her arm around Lily. Pull her close. Whisper encouragement and reassurance. Rose wasn’t one to hand out good cheer to just anyone, but Lily seemed to be an old soul, someone who’d seen the bottom and was determined to swim her way to the top.
Lily looked both ways, as if a car could be roaring down the gently curving lane, then crossed the street. Her hair gleamed in the sunlight, her movements purposeful and steady.
Rose took a deep breath and stepped inside the café.
Thirteen
Unsure of what to expect at the Summer Kickoff party, Lily dressed with care, skipping her swimsuit, which she found at the bottom of a tote bag, and instead choosing a flowing yellow skirt and plain white tee. She left her hair down, just pinning a lock back to keep it out of her face, and let the afternoon’s humidity coax it into loops and waves. Stepping back to look at herself in the bathroom mirror, she marveled at the woman staring back at her. How was it possible to look the same when everything in her life had been turned inside out?
Downstairs she sat gingerly on the couch. All her nerves felt on edge, sparking inside her skin. Something in her craved movement—to stretch herself, to push her limits. She wished she were a swimmer so she could slash through the water with skill and speed. Or a runner, lacing up a pair of running shoes and taking off, burning away her recent memories with pounding feet and pumping arms.
But she wasn’t. Wasn’t a swimmer, wasn’t a runner, was hardly even a wife, though the rings on her left ring finger still sat heavy and tight on her skin. Did Worth still wear his ring? Did he look at it and think about the woman he swept up and away a little over a year ago, only to write her a note and slip away in the night, setting both of them free in the process?
She scanned the room she’d set up with so much care and attention this week. The flowers she’d clipped yesterday still stood tall and crisp, the late afternoon sunlight winking off the glass jars. White towels were folded and stacked on the counter. Baskets held clips and brushes and combs. The pouch containing her mother’s scissors sat on top of the rolling cart, waiting for the first person to sit in the chair, exhale, and wait patiently for her to change their life by cutting their hair.
Lily wondered again if she had the same practiced skill Lillian once had—the ability to do so much more than just cut and style hair. Lily could do that, of course. Whether back in Fox Hill or here where the edge of the land dripped into the bay, she knew how to use a pair of scissors to achieve a desired result. But Lillian had gone so much further. She offered her customers a moment of respite, a slice out of time where their burdens slipped to the floor, strand by strand. It was more than the scissors, more than the hair dryers and curling irons. It was in her—in her fingers, her laughter, her manner, her very presence. She saw through her customers’ words to what they really needed, and she gave it to them.
Lily could fluff her towels all day, set out flowers in every vase she could find, and clean every floorboard and windowsill in the entire cottage, but none of it would matter if her mother’s gift didn’t flow through Lily’s veins too. Lillian had said Lily had the gift—that she’d been born with it. Lily could only hope, for both her sake and that of the villagers, that it was true.
Outside, a couple walked past her cottage, heading toward the big grassy space next to the pool where the party was set up. Even from inside, Lily could hear faint music—something plucky and light. Someone was singing too, though she was too far away to make out any words.
The couple w
alked slowly, in no hurry to reach the festivities. Lily saw the man’s lips moving, and then the woman laughed, head back, smile wide. The evening light was slanted, filtering through the crepe myrtle and magnolia leaves and casting the couple’s faces, the shop fronts, even the air, with an orange glow.
Lily stood, unsure of what to do. She could easily kick off her sandals and go back upstairs. Or she could put one foot in front of the other, walk out into the fading sunlight, and go to a party.
When she opened the front door, she half expected to see Coach Beaumont waiting in his golf cart to drive her the short distance to the gathering, but the front porch was empty, as was the street beyond it. Before she could change her mind, Lily walked down the steps, out into the yard, and down the street.
* * *
Lily figured she’d met about fifteen people since she’d arrived at the village. Maybe twenty. But there must have been a hundred people at the party. Most were under the tents piling their plates with food, while others sat at long tables set up in the grass. A few danced on the makeshift dance floor set up in front of the band. A tall man with electric white hair and a matching mustache leaned down toward the microphone and sang about love and mountains and something about an old truck. As he crooned, his fingers danced across the strings of a stand-up bass as tall as him. Behind him, two men strummed on banjos while a woman with gray hair shot through with streaks of hot pink played a violin. It took Lily a moment, but she recognized her as Cricket, the woman from the pool the other night at sunset.
Lily scanned the crowd, trying to find Rose or Coach or one of the neighbors who had brought her food, but not a single face looked familiar. People had spilled over onto the pool deck—sitting in the lounge chairs, plates of food balanced on their knees, feet tapping and heads bobbing to the peppy beat of the music. A handful of folks had migrated to the pool itself, some sitting on the top step, their feet in the water, and a few others all the way in.
She had just decided to take a quick walk through the food tent to see if she could spot Rose—not that Rose was particularly warm, but at least she was familiar—when she saw a little girl pull herself up onto the edge of the pool and run for the diving board. Lily recognized her by her hair. Even wet, the red curls were unmistakable. Hazel climbed the steps and walked out to the edge, the board underneath her bouncing with each timid footstep. Her pink goggles were perched on her forehead, just above her eyes.
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