Driftwood Summer

by Patti Callahan Henry

  Maisy stood. “Great. If I’d known that one sarcastic comment would get me back to California, I would’ve said it a long time ago.”

  Riley held up her hand. “Please don’t do this,” she said. “Maisy, sit down. No one is going anywhere. Please stop this fighting. We have so much to get through this week. There is something every single day. Maisy, the book clubs adore you.” Riley stood, walked toward Kitsy’s bedside. “Mama, you should see the history boards Adalee made. The book signing last night may have been our most successful ever, and Maisy and Adalee were a huge part of that. Let’s please pull together this week, enjoy the party and then you can fight all day long. Or leave, or whatever you want.”

  Kitsy closed her eyes for a long moment, and when she opened them, she had a smile on her face. “Okay, tell me about these history boards. And then let’s talk about Book Club Celebration tonight.”

  “Yes. The speaker, Mrs. Guthridge, is the local librarian. She is going to talk about how book clubs enrich our lives. I’m hoping that members from all twenty book clubs will show up, and then buy their books for the next month. We’ll have a trivia contest and of course wine and cheese.”

  When they were finished with business, Adalee went to her Mama’s bedside. Maisy sat in the chair wishing for another afternoon with Mack—escape.

  “Mama,” Adalee said, “do you know Mrs. Lithgow?”

  “Only from the bookstore. Why?”

  “I think she used to live in the cottage.”

  “I wouldn’t know; she’s about fifty years older than me.”

  Adalee laughed. “She’s a hundred and thirty years old?”

  “Funny. Now go about your business. I have a wheelchair to pick out for my birthday party.”

  “You’re gonna make it to the party?” Riley looked up from packing papers into her satchel.

  “Yep, that is my surprise for this morning. Doc says I can go if I do my physical therapy twice a day without complaining.”

  “Great. Just great.” Riley kissed her on the cheek. “Listen, I gotta run. I’m checking on Brayden and then getting back to the store. Maisy, I told Ethel you’d be there for the Page Turners Club by ten.”

  “Okay,” Maisy said.

  “By the way, you have a phone message.” Kitsy pointed at Maisy. “It’s in the kitchen; the housekeeper said she couldn’t find you last night to tell you.” She squinted at her daughter. “Where were you?”

  “At the bookstore,” Maisy said.

  “No,” Mama said. “This was late—maybe ten.”

  “I was entertaining Nick Martin.”

  Maisy walked away, allowing her statement to linger in the room. Let them believe what they wanted—maybe they’d imagine a better night than the one she’d had. She’d actually spent most of the evening looking for Mack Logan instead of enjoying Nick’s company.

  “Maisy.” Riley’s sharp voice made her turn before she reached the kitchen.

  “I am not in the mood for a lecture.” Maisy tossed her words over her shoulder, disdain underlying every syllable.

  “I just want to ask you to please be nicer to Mama. You don’t have to make this so hard.”

  Maisy stopped in the hallway, turned to face Riley, took two steps toward her. “When did you turn into this perfect little princess trying to make everything right for Mama? This store, this week, this life . . . it’s all about her. All about you.”

  “You don’t . . . understand. And you never take the time to try,” Riley whispered, her voice shaking as she turned to walk away and leave Maisy alone in the hallway.

  Maisy flinched and walked toward the message in the kitchen: maybe Mack wanted to see her again.

  The notepaper lay next to the phone on the far counter. These marble counters had been installed when Maisy was in high school and they still gleamed from Mama’s constant care. Lucy Morgan called—would like to meet you for coffee at 11 a.m. at the bookstore.

  Maisy’s breath caught in the back of her throat. There would be no way to avoid Lucy. Maybe she should have walked out of this house, this town, when she had a chance a few moments ago; she’d be halfway to the airport by now.

  Damn.

  When she arrived at the cottage in Mama’s pickup truck, she walked straight back to the book club corner where the Page Turners Club was taking their seats. They started the morning by complaining that the coffee was cold, the muffins smaller than usual and the air-conditioning too chilly. Maisy smiled, made new coffee, set out more muffins and walked behind the counter to adjust the thermostat. Ethel smiled at her. “They giving you a hard time?”

  Maisy shrugged. “Nothing seems to be right for them this morning.”

  “Nothing is ever right for them,” Ethel said. “Don’t be taking it all personal now, okay?”

  “Okay. Ethel, how long have you worked here?”

  “Since your mama and sister opened the doors twelve years ago.”

  “You love this place, don’t you?”

  “I do. I love it more than I like most people.” Ethel let out a long, deep laugh. “And I’m not kidding.”

  Maisy laughed, too. “At least more than the Page Turners Club.”

  Ethel nodded. “But never more than your mama and Riley. Never. I love them with all my heart.”

  “Me, too,” Maisy said, let the truth of the words warm her before she turned back to Ethel. “I’m renaming this book club.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Complaining Companions. You like that?”

  “Perfect.” Ethel waved at a book club member who was motioning for Maisy.

  “Wish me luck,” she said as she headed back and asked the women how they felt about the book they were reading—Gone With the Wind. They launched into a heated critique of Margaret Mitchell’s writing style. Maisy wanted to tell them to stop wasting their time tearing apart one of the bestselling novels of all times, but she smiled, asked, “Is the room temperature okay now?”

  A dark-haired woman glanced up. “Getting there. Have you read this novel?”

  Maisy shrugged. “Saw the movie. Does that count?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “No, it does not.”

  “So,” Maisy said, needing a quick change of subject. “What are you reading after this?”

  “We read classics only. To Kill a Mockingbird is next on our list. We compare the writing styles of different time periods and discuss sentence structure and plot development.”

  “Okay.” Maisy stifled a laugh. “Sounds like . . . loads of fun.”

  The woman stared at Riley for a moment, and made a huffing noise. “We’d like more chocolate-chip muffins, please. None of us likes the blueberry.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Maisy glanced at the antique wall clock, hoping that the club would end before eleven, when Lucy Morgan was due to arrive. Maisy’s gaze wandered to the front door, to the coffee bar and then back to the club. She busied herself fulfilling the Page Turners’ requests until ten fifty-eight a.m., when she excused herself and headed toward the checkout counter, where Adalee stood talking with Ethel about glue and tape for her history boards. Behind the counter, sagging plywood shelves held the current book club choices; handwritten signs were posted in front of each chosen book. A copy of Ethel’s monthly pick, Where or When by Anita Shreve, was displayed on a wire stand. Maisy recited the names of the clubs in an attempt to stay the prickle of panic that was forming in her stomach: “Beach Babes Book Club; Blonde Book Club; Classics Only; New Moms; Fabulous and Forty; Out-of-the-House Wives; Kindred Spirits . . .”

  Adalee poked at Maisy. “You okay? You’re mumbling.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You know, we should really do something about this place.” Adalee swept her arm to encompass the entire cottage.

  “What do you mean?” Maisy glanced at the opening front door.

  “I mean it’s stuck in, like, nineteen seventy. Really. We could fix it up. It would be . . . fun. If Riley has to ruin our summer, the least we can do is have
fun.”

  “You and your fun,” Maisy said. A shaft of light fell across the hardwood floors and two women walked in; neither was Lucy. Maisy looked back at her sister. “Riley said we can’t make any changes. No money.”

  “We could surprise them. The Antique Mart and Flea Market is in town for two days. Come on, let’s go see what they’ve got, just like old times.”

  Maisy’s heart filled with memory: she and Adalee used to go to the flea market, find old furniture, paint it and redecorate their bedrooms at least every six months. It drove their mama out of her mind. All the family antiques and fine furniture, and she and Adalee would come home with “someone else’s trash.” They tried a different theme each time: hippie, punk rock, Laura Ashley . . .

  Adalee lifted her palms in the air. “Oh, my gosh, remember when we tried to do a Lilly Pulitzer theme with all red and pink, and it looked like someone had thrown up Pepto-Bismol all over our rooms?”

  “It was a good idea, but we should have gone with the blues instead of the pinks. I still think a Lilly-inspired room would be pretty awesome.”

  Maisy felt that dangerous feeling—this was where she could be fooled into staying, into remembering the better aspects of life with her sisters. Alliances between the three of them had shifted with the seasons: Riley and Adalee building a fort in the woods, then Maisy and Adalee scanning flea markets, then Maisy and Riley sneaking out for a party at the old lighthouse. She’d almost forgotten.

  “And,” Adalee said, her voice rising, “Riley would never let us touch her room. She had the exact same room, with her furniture in the exact same place, forever. In fact, it’s still like that. Even down to the white chenille bedspread.”

  “I love white chenille,” Maisy said. “Funny how some things are timeless.”

  “Like old friends.” A voice came from behind Maisy, and she turned to face Lucy.

  Her heart quickened, her stomach gripped in anxiety. She attempted a smile, her words caught in her clenched throat.

  Lucy backed up a step. “You don’t want to see me, do you?”

  “Yes, yes. I just thought . . .”

  “Just thought what?”

  Maisy glanced at her sister. “I’ll be in the coffee shop. Come get me when you’re ready to go to the Antique Mart.”

  Adalee clapped her hands together. “Awesome. I thought you said . . .”

  Maisy held up her hand. “Just come get me in a few.”

  Lucy and Maisy walked to the café and sat down at a far table next to a display of luxury gift soaps made by a local artisan. Anne brought over Maisy’s regular latte, then asked Lucy for her order.

  Lucy ordered a hot tea and folded her hands on the table, tilted her head at Maisy. “I know we haven’t talked in, like, twelve years, but I want you to know I’m not mad . . . anymore about what you did. And I miss you. When I saw you in the bookstore the other day, all my reasons for not talking to you washed away. I remembered all the good times.”

  Maisy stared into her coffee cup, avoiding Lucy’s brown eyes.

  Lucy sighed. “You never told me why you did what you did.”

  Maisy lifted her head, panic rising like acid. Was she truly supposed to explain to her ex-best friend why she’d slept with her then fiancé, now husband? “I don’t . . . know what to say.”

  “Tucker thinks you didn’t show up because you got in a fight with your family . . . your sister or someone. He said I shouldn’t take it personally. But how was I supposed to take it? You didn’t show up at my wedding, and you never answered any of my phone calls. I wanted to hate you, but I only missed you.”

  “Oh . . . Lucy. I am so . . . so sorry.” Maisy released a deep breath of relief and regret; Lucy didn’t know about her and Tucker.

  “Why did you leave?” Lucy asked again.

  “I had to. I don’t know how to explain it. I had to get out of this town, away from this place. I should have called you. I needed to get away from my family. Away from Riley. Away from . . .”

  “What did Riley do?”

  Anne arrived with Lucy’s tea and Maisy waited until she walked away before she answered. “It doesn’t matter now. I am just so sorry. How’s your family?”

  Lucy smiled now. “Great. Tucker and I moved to Bartow just down the road. We don’t have kids . . . yet. He wants to wait a bit longer. I come here at least once a week to see friends, go to book club, catch up. I worked at the local real estate office, but Tucker wants me home when he gets there, so now I’m thinking about what to do next.”

  “You don’t live in town anymore? I thought . . .”

  Lucy laughed. “Things don’t stay the same just because you left. No, we moved years ago.”

  “I’ve missed . . . a lot, haven’t I?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said. “Riley and your mama have done an amazing job with this store. It’s a gathering place for the whole area. I don’t know what we’d do without it. I almost didn’t make it last week because something weird happened to my car, but I never miss book club. I don’t know what went on between you and Riley, but you should be proud of what she’s done here.”

  “I am.” Maisy turned away. “It was a long time ago. . . . Change of subject. So, what happened to your car?”

  “Some prankster took off all the tires and left them in a pile on the sidewalk. The car was on cinder blocks.”

  Maisy stared at the wall behind Lucy’s head, seeing the sobbing book club blonde talking about the crazy thing she’d done to her lover’s wife. “Oh,” Maisy said.

  Lucy shrugged. “Stupid teenagers or something. A ridiculous dare by one of those high school clubs, I’m sure.”

  “Probably.” Maisy nodded and forced herself to look at Lucy.

  “Tell me about your glamorous life in California.” Lucy still had that sweet smile, full and genuine. “I bet you love it there. You look great, by the way. Then again, you always did.”

  “I do love it there. Part of me regrets not going to college . . . but I’d probably be doing the same thing I’m doing now, just with a degree.”

  “We all thought you were so brave when you ran off to California. Was it scary?” Lucy leaned forward, folded her hands around her mug.

  “Yes.” Maisy nodded. “At first it was, but just like anywhere else, you meet people, you get a job, you find a life. And it has been years, so it’s hard to remember everything about that early time.”

  “I remember what it was like when you left.” Lucy tucked a stray curl behind her ear, stared up at the ceiling. “It was sad. No one knew why you went, and your family was distraught. I couldn’t believe that my best friend wouldn’t be in my wedding.”

  Maisy exhaled. “I am so sorry. I never, ever meant to hurt you. It was all . . . terrible.”

  The smile returned to Lucy’s face. “Well, it turned out all right, didn’t it? Just like a good book or something. You have a great life. Tucker and I are married. And now you’re home and we can catch up, hang out before you go back.”

  “Sure.” Maisy smiled, glanced up at her sister coming toward them. “Adalee wants to go to the Antique Mart and Flea Market.” Then Maisy’s heart opened up to her best friend: the girl who had stayed over most weekends, who had listened to her cry and confess her loves and fears; the girl who had hidden the homecoming wine bottle in her own car and taken the blame. Maybe it would be okay; she could keep her secret, start off where she had left off with Lucy like nothing had ever happened. The past was buried, gone.

  Lucy retrieved her purse from the floor. “It was really great to see you. I know this week is crazy.” She tapped the newsletter listing the events. “I’ll try to come to everything—I do want to support your family.”

  Maisy took Lucy’s hand across the table, a silent confession and asking of forgiveness concealed in her next question. “You want to come to the flea market with us? We aren’t going for long. I have to be back for this evening’s event.”

  “That is so sweet, but I volunteer at the History Center
at noon on Saturdays.”

  “Okay . . . I’ll see you tonight?” Maisy asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  Adalee shifted her feet. “Maybe you can go next time.” She turned to Maisy. “Let’s totally get moving before the best stuff is gone.”

  The three women walked out the front door of Driftwood Cottage, laughing over a story Lucy was telling about a woman they saw coming in from the parking lot, a local neighbor whose dog constantly humped Lucy and Tucker’s concrete bunny in the garden. Relieved, Maisy basked in the comfort of Lucy’s friendship even while guilt and regret lay below the surface of her smile.

  FOURTEEN

  RILEY

  Regret buzzed through Riley like a fly she couldn’t swat. Why had she spent so much time being irritated with Mama when she should have been appreciative? And why did it take the storm of illness to awaken the need to cherish Mama? She walked down Pearson’s Pier, and then lifted her hand to stop her hat from flying off in a quick breeze. Her eyes locked on Brayden and she waved.

  He turned away and she imagined him rolling his eyes at Mack, fishing next to him. As a child Brayden had come to her in the middle of the night with bad dreams. Now he didn’t seem to need her at all. When she was twelve years old, and summer had released her from the grip of homework and team sports, she, too, had spent hours and hours on this pier. She’d run around with a couple of dollars in her pocket—enough for lunch at the Burger Shack and an ice cream in the late afternoon. Sometimes she’d pick up loose change on the boardwalk for extra bait at the Pier House. If she didn’t have the change, old Mr. Henson would sneak her a bag of chum.

  Riley came up behind the two males and they turned in response to her greeting. A cloud moved from the sun, and vivid sunlight struck Mack’s face. Riley lifted her hand to shield her eyes.

  “Hey, Minnow,” he said.

  Brayden answered, “No, her name is Riley.”

  Mack laughed. “There was an entire summer when she wanted to be called Minnow.”

  Riley shook her head at Mack, pulled her hat lower and spoke to Brayden. “I never wanted to be called Minnow.”