Maisy yanked on a pair of jean shorts and a tank top, pulled her wet hair into a ponytail and ran downstairs to the drawing room, where Mama was sitting up in bed, her lips a thin line, her face pale and set. Maisy kissed her, sat on the chair next to the bed. “Morning, Mama. What’s for breakfast?”
She pointed to two covered plates on the rolling metal table. “Cold eggs.”
“Sounds good.”
“They were fifteen minutes ago.”
“Mama, I’m sorry. I was so tired after last night, I just slept in a bit, that’s all.”
Mama met Maisy’s eyes, her face coming to life with her question. “How did it go? Were there a lot of people? Who won the basket of signed books?”
“Whoa.” Maisy pulled the breakfast tray toward them. “I’m starving. Can I eat my cold eggs first?”
This comment brought a smile to Mama’s face. “Yeah, sure. I just forget how hard you girls are working. I hate being cooped up in this damn bed. I just want out. . . . I want to come to the store. . . .”
“I know.” Maisy lifted her fork. “We miss having you there. It’s like a missing lightbulb in a beautiful chandelier.”
Mama turned to Maisy. “You’ve always had that gift—that gift of being able to make everyone feel good. You know just the right thing to say. No wonder all the boys fall in love with you.”
“That’s not true,” Maisy said. “You want to hear about last night or not?”
In between bites of Harriet’s chive-and-feta-cheese scrambled eggs and brown sugar-covered bacon, Maisy told her mama about the night, who’d come and left, who’d won the trivia and who’d drunk too much of the free wine. She took another bite of bacon, sat back. “When I go home to California, I’m gonna weigh six hundred pounds.”
Mama leaned back on her pillow, closed her eyes. “I am so blessed to have you girls here. The store sounds like it can go on without me.”
“Of course it can.” Maisy placed her hand on her mama’s arm. “But I know they wish you were there. And I can’t stay forever.”
Mama opened her eyes, stared at Maisy. “You’re going back to California?”
“Not today, but of course I am. I live there, Mama.”
“I was hoping you’d remember. . . .”
“Remember what?”
“How great it is to live here. To be around your sisters. To be . . . with me.”
“Oh, Mama.” Maisy laid her head on the thin cashmere throw covering her mama’s legs. “I didn’t leave to get away from you.”
“Then who did you leave to get away from?”
“Me.” Maisy attempted a laugh, a lighthearted answer that held more truth than she’d meant to convey.
“But, Maisy, you take you with you,” Mama said.
“Yes, I did. But I also left some of me here.”
Mama placed her hand on top of Maisy’s wet hair. “You can never leave a part of yourself somewhere. That is impossible. You just think you did.”
“I was kiddin’. Of course I can’t leave me here; if I did, you wouldn’t be asking after me, now, would you?” Maisy closed her eyes and felt the warmth of her mama’s hand on her head. She was a child again—a child who needed to be told that everything would be okay.
Maisy lifted her head. “You always said things work out for the best.”
“Yes, I did. But you always took that to mean that things would work out the best for you. I never said that. I just said they work out for the good of all. Somehow when it didn’t work out for you, you didn’t think it worked out at all.”
“Why does that sound like an insult?”
Mama shook her head. “It wasn’t. You are my heart, Maisy. I do love you.”
“I love you, too. And it sure is nice to have a half day off. I’m having brunch with Mack Logan, and then I’ll help the Cookbook Club get set up. . . .”
“First tell me all about last night.” Mama settled back into her bed.
Maisy rattled off names, funny stories and how Mrs. Lithgow got confused about how many of the books she’d written. When she was finished, Maisy stood, kissing her mother on the cheek. “Riley and Adalee should be here by one. So you get your rest and they’ll check in.”
“Maisy?”
She stopped halfway to the door. “Yes?”
“I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty for leaving. I know you have to live your own life. I just never understood it . . . and I miss you.”
Maisy’s heart rolled with the sweet honesty of her mama’s words. She smiled. “That is the second time I’ve heard that in two days. Glad to know I’ve been missed.”
Mama turned away, closed her eyes. Maisy ran up the stairs to dry her hair, pick out something to wear to meet Mack. Maybe her mama was right—maybe things did work out for the good of all.
By noon Maisy was sitting at a corner table at the Beach Club, her hair smooth and flat, sunglasses pushed on top of her head. Her white linen shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of her bright pink bikini bathing suit top, and the thin white cotton skirt flowed over her thighs. Her left flip-flop smacked back and forth against her heel as she waited. She’d been early on purpose, wanting to watch Mack walk in and move toward her as she sat still and waiting. The entire scenario was planned—much better than being found dusty and dirty with her mouth open in stupid surprise. Today she would redo the bad impressions she’d made yesterday.
The waiter placed an iced tea with an orange straw on the table; Maisy took a long sip and thanked him, stared out toward the beach, where the Sunday-morning crowd was unpacking their coolers and unrolling their bright beach towels. A family battled a large umbrella, laughing until they had it upright and open over a baby in a portable playpen. Maisy dropped an elbow onto the table, settled her chin in her palm. She turned her face away from the beach to take another sip of iced tea; the straw missed her mouth and settled directly up her left nostril.
She attempted a slight shake of her head to free the straw. When that didn’t work, she covered her face with her right hand and lifted her left to yank the straw free from her nose. A deep laugh made her shoot her head up. Mack stood there, his smile broad.
She dropped her head into her hands and moaned.
Mack sat catty-corner to her. “You know you couldn’t have done that better if you’d tried.”
Maisy peeked at him from between her fingers. “Can we do that again, and this time I’ll be sitting here looking poised and elegant, like a woman in a Bloomingdale’s catalog?”
“No way. I much prefer the imperfect Maisy with a straw stuck up her nose.”
She dropped her hands, and feigned a punch to his arm. “If you tell a soul, I will personally kill you. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“You do?”
She sighed. “Or maybe it’s a reputation I don’t want to uphold. Either way, can you just not tell anyone?”
He reached over and gave her a salt-and-sand-scented hug. She remembered him in a rush of sensation: how he smelled and the comfort of his warmth. “It’s been so great to see you the past couple days,” he said, “and you look absolutely amazing. It’s as if time hasn’t passed at all for you.”
She touched his temples, brushed the short hair with her forefinger. “You look very sophisticated with your business haircut.”
“Well, that’s because I am sophisticated.”
“When did that happen?” Maisy pulled her sunglasses over her eyes as the noonday sun became too strong.
The waiter’s arrival cut Mack’s answer short. They ordered their food and talked about their lives as the sun moved westward and Maisy’s heart moved toward Mack Logan. When their food was gone, they both ordered Bloody Marys, sat in the quiet of a Sunday afternoon and looked out over the porch of the Beach Club, past the sand buckets, laughing kids and sunburned tourists.
Maisy leaned her head back on the chair’s headrest. She wanted to stay right here for hours with Mack, the sun warm on her face and the hope of things to come f
lirting with her heart.
“Want to take a swim?” Mack asked.
Maisy opened her eyes. “No. I want to stay right here for days and days.”
He smiled. “Sounds good, but I think the hostess is trying to seat some more people.”
Maisy looked up at a long line of impatient, hungry people staring at them. “Okay, but let’s go down to the beach in front of Driftwood Cottage. It’s never as crowded there.”
“You read my mind.”
They walked in silence, Mack stopping every now and then to bend over, pick up a shell, dig his toes deeper into the sand. Maisy brushed up against him as if she were that same sixteen-year-old wanting one touch, one brush of his arm or leg against her skin; the adolescent who’d tagged along behind her sister and Mack to the movie on the lawn, staring at Mack Logan with the full force of her desire, and then moving her blanket closer to his. Her mind scrambled for the words to ask him if he was dating someone, or worse engaged; this subject hadn’t come up yet. But she held tight to the question that might change everything about the dream-saturated afternoon.
When they reached the beach behind Driftwood Cottage, Maisy threw her straw beach bag down on the sand. Mack yanked his T-shirt over his head. “I haven’t been in the water yet. Let’s go.”
She slipped off her cotton skirt to reveal her bikini bottoms, unbuttoned her shirt and removed her sunglasses to drop them inside her beach bag. “You know . . . I haven’t been in the water yet, either. So it’s the first time for both of us.”
She realized how that sounded and her heart quickened at his smile. He ran toward the water, hollering over his shoulder, “Beat you to it.”
She ran behind him, laughing and pumping her legs to catch up with him. They ran through the shallows, then ducked under the deeper waves. Together they swam farther out, then parallel to the beach. Out of breath, Maisy stood in the chest-high waves, watched Mack dive and surface, float on his back. She lifted water in her palms, let it trickle between her fingers as she bounced up and down on the tips of her toes with the waves.
Mack dove, stayed there. Maisy scanned the surface, called his name. A hand grabbed her ankle, and in an instant, she was under, too, her parted lips taking in a mouthful of seawater. She allowed Mack to pull her deeper, wrap his arms around her waist, their bodies melding hip to shoulder, skin on skin. He released her and she sputtered to the surface, pretended to be angry and spitting water. She splashed him. “That was mean.”
He stood close to her, wiped a strand of hair from the side of her mouth. She turned in response. He smiled that sweet smile. “Do you remember what you said when I told you I loved you all those years ago?”
This was what Maisy had been waiting for—this exact moment with Mack, her chance to make it all come right this time. “I said I loved you back.”
“No, you said, ‘I know.’ That was the last thing you said to me. ‘I know.’ ”
Maisy felt warmth wash her insides, beginning at her heart and rushing down to her feet, her blood flowing to the truth: she’d had a chance to tell this man—then a boy—that she loved him, and back then it would have been true. “But I did . . .” She bit her lower lip on the certainty, the unequivocal truth.
“Some things are just better and bigger in memory, aren’t they?”
“No. Not you.” Maisy fought the need to throw her arms around this man she barely knew anymore and tell him that she loved him. She’d loved him then and he was just as wonderful now, but she didn’t want to push him away with her desperate need.
Mack released her, dove under the water and swam toward shore. She watched in awe as water sluiced off his body. He stopped, stood waist-deep and waited for her to catch up.
Together they waded back to shore. He shook his head, salt water spraying over her. She inhaled his scent and then smiled at him, hoping that he could hear her unspoken words of desire. “Can I see you later?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Do you have to go somewhere now?”
She nodded. “I have to help the Cookbook Club cook something, but the truth is, the last thing I made was macaroni and cheese from a box.”
“Just smile and they won’t even notice you can’t cook,” Mack said, and walked toward their shirts and towels.
A child’s voice echoing across the water reached them. “Mr. Mack . . . hey, hey, over here.”
Mack and Maisy turned together to see Brayden jumping up and down on the beach.
“Hey, Brayden,” Mack called, backed a few feet away from Maisy.
Brayden ran up to them. “Hey, Aunt Maisy, what’s up?”
“Not much, buddy. What’s up with you?”
“Just finished a boring meeting with Gamma and Mom and Adalee. How come you got out of it?”
“I had my interrogation this morning.” Maisy slipped her shirt back on over her bathing suit, buttoned it.
Brayden turned his attention to Mack. “Okay, your turn. Let’s see if you can really catch more redfish off the jetty than off Pearson’s Pier. I’m telling you, you can’t. Maybe in the old days, but not now.”
“Who you calling old?”
“You . . .” Brayden ran off, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll get the poles. Meet you at the jetty.”
Mack smiled at Maisy. “Guess I’m going fishing. I promised Dad, too.”
“Yeah, and I gotta . . .” She motioned toward the house.
“God, it’s great to be here.” Mack headed off, and Maisy turned toward the cottage, hoping no one could see the big, goofy smile on her face.
EIGHTEEN
RILEY
Thesunwarmed Riley’s shoulders, the afternoon hazy with languid humidity as she relaxed, knowing that Maisy was preparing for the Cookbook Club. She’d walked to the jetty pier to meet Brayden and bring him home before the public arrived for the cooking demonstration. Next to her on the pier stood Mack, Brayden and Sheppard, their fishing poles appendages that hung over the slapping waves. The men continued their bets about the best place to fish.
Mack hollered toward Brayden. “Take a couple steps back, buddy. Your mom will kill me if you fall in.”
Sheppard flung his line to the right, toward the marsh area. His fishing hat hung loose on his head, his thinner hair poking out underneath the rim. Mack leaned toward Riley. “He’s had that hat since I can remember. Even the stains have stories. Every lure is the one that got away. I don’t have a summer memory of him that doesn’t include that hat.”
Riley smiled, laid her hand on top of Mack’s resting on the warm wooden railing. The sun seemed to hum as it pressed down on them, spreading lassitude and warmth. A sad thought crossed Riley’s mind—what would Mack do with that hat when his father was gone? What did one do with the most important memories held in material possessions? Display them? Bury them?
Riley turned away from Mack’s frail father, away from her morbid thoughts, and watched Brayden reel in his line to show them a tangle of marsh grass. Mack hollered, “Told you this wasn’t near as good a place to fish.”
Then Sheppard let out a shout. “I got me a big one here.”
Brayden dropped his pole on the dock, ran over to Sheppard’s side. Holding up his pole, Sheppard smiled. “Ta-da.” A large redfish dangled on the end of the line, sunlight glinting off the silvered scales.
Together they unhooked the fish. Sheppard was holding it over the water to release it when Brayden placed his hand on the old man’s arm. “My mom is a really good cook. She can fry that thing up for you in about a second.”
Mack laughed. “And I bet she can clean it faster than anyone you know.”
Brayden nodded. “Except me. I can do it faster.”
Riley leaned against the rail and shook her head. “Go ahead and release the fish, Mr. Sheppard. There is no way I’m going to have time to fry that up tonight.”
Another hour passed in quiet companionship before Mack put his pole down and sat with Riley on the wooden bench attached to the railing. “Is it like t
his when you live here?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you at peace like this all the time? Like now? Or is it only this way if you visit. . . . At this moment, I feel no need to contact the outside world. It doesn’t exist anymore.”
Riley shrugged. “I’m not sure about the peaceful part. I do have to work and face all those other problems that can make life hard. But yes, sometimes I feel that the outside world doesn’t really exist. It’s hard for me to picture you in New York or Boston or anywhere but on the end of a Lowcountry dock.”
“Maybe because that’s where I belong.”
An older couple—hand in hand—walked slowly down the dock. The woman leaned her head against the shoulder of the taller man, who carried a parcel or box of some sort. As they drew closer, Riley recognized them—Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge, Sheldon’s parents. A whisper passed her lips. “The Rutledge family,” she said.
Mack waved at them, but the couple stared past him and Riley, almost through them. It wasn’t until the couple reached the end of the dock that their faces flickered with recognition. Mrs. Rutledge formed her mouth into a round O of surprise, and said their names. Riley realized that Mrs. Rutledge was crying, her eyes swollen and full of tears.
Sheppard placed his pole in a round brass holder and shook Mr. Rutledge’s hand, offered greetings, and then gave Mrs. Rutledge a hug. Brayden turned toward them, but didn’t come closer.
Mrs. Rutledge hugged Mack. “I am so sorry I didn’t recognize you for a minute. This is a hard day for us.”
Mack looked at his father, who spoke to him in soft words. “I heard yesterday and meant to tell you this morning. Sheldon was . . .”
Mr. Rutledge finished Sheppard’s sentence. “Sheldon died with honor for our country on a mission in Iraq. It’s been months, but we wanted to bring . . . bring him here.”
Driftwood Summer Page 18