Driftwood Summer

by Patti Callahan Henry

  “No more. No more apologies.” Mr. Rutledge spoke in a firm voice. “Gifts should not come with apologies.”

  Mrs. Rutledge clasped her hands before her as if in prayer. “Oh, Mark, we have so much to learn about him: his birthday, what he likes, what grade he’s in. Oh, what if he doesn’t like us?”

  Riley took Mrs. Rutledge’s hand. “He’ll love you.”

  “Can we . . . ?” Mr. Rutledge’s helpless gesture toward his wife revealed an uncertainty that Riley had never seen in him before, not even when he’d scattered his son’s ashes.

  “Can you what?” she asked.

  “See him. Be . . . involved in his life?” His deep voice held a quaver.

  “Oh, yes. Yes. I want you to know him—” She glanced between them. “But first I have to tell him.”

  Mrs. Rutledge took her husband’s hand. “We’ve arranged to stay here until Saturday.” She looked at Riley. “You know we live in Edisto now. We aren’t that far from here—a few hours.”

  “I’m going to give you some privacy now.” Riley placed her hand on the door handle. “Why don’t you plan on coming for dinner tomorrow night? I have a tiny place, but we can eat in the café of the bookstore. . . .”

  “Oh, dinner tomorrow would be wonderful.” Mrs. Rutledge smiled, wiping her eyes.

  Mr. Rutledge nodded without words, simply hugged Riley once more.

  She took the path around the house to her car, and realized that her own smile was real, unfettered by fear. Possibilities seemed to be opening up as she allowed new people into her life, into Brayden’s life.

  The next day, Riley stood over her sleeping son and wondered if there was a book or instruction manual to help her tell her son that the dad he never knew was dead. There were probably a million wrong ways to say it, and she didn’t know the single right way.

  She sat on the edge of the rumpled bed and ran her forefinger over his cheek; he stirred beneath her. Brayden hadn’t asked about his dad until he was five years old and they had donuts for Dad at school. She had told him then that his father was fighting in a faraway war—and it was the truth. She’d been prepared, over the years, to answer other questions—why she wasn’t with his dad and why he’d never visited—but the only other time Brayden had asked was when he was six years old, after his granddad died. She’d tucked Brayden into bed and he’d whispered, “Is Dad fighting in a war so far away that he doesn’t even know about me?”

  “No, Brayden,” she’d said, “he doesn’t know.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “I love him because he gave me you,” she’d said, and kissed him good night.

  Now Brayden opened his eyes, stared at Riley. “I thought I could sleep in,” he said.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  He sat up, his hair slanted to the left. He rubbed his face. “Is something wrong?”

  “Meet me in the kitchen. I’ll make your favorite gourmet breakfast of Pop-Tarts.”

  He squinted at her, and mumbled something that resembled an okay.

  Riley sat at the scratched kitchen table and took inventory of all the things to which she would soon say goodbye: this kitchen she had always meant to have redone; the slanted, scratched hardwood floors; the familiar creak of the back steps; the sweet sound of the wind coming off the Atlantic. She pressed her fingers into her eyelids to stop the tears. She had to focus on Brayden now. . . .

  “Mom . . . ?” His voice hesitated on the simple word.

  She handed him a plate with two toasted Pop-Tarts. “I want to talk to you about your father.”

  He lifted the Pop-Tart, stared at it and then put it back onto the plate. “You already told me, Mom. We don’t have to go over it again. He doesn’t know about me; he’s in a war. I get it. If you’re starting to feel bad about me not having a dad for parents’ day or something, it’s no biggie, really.” His response was so hard and sure that Riley felt the sting of her own neglect.

  “Please, Brayden. Just give me a second here.” She took a deep breath. “Your dad’s name was Sheldon Rutledge.”

  He stared at her with a look she’d only seen once—when they’d had to evacuate for a hurricane: fear of the unknown.

  “He was an incredible and wonderful man with a loud laugh and a big heart. He joined the Air Force to serve his country. All he ever wanted to do was fly planes. And he did. I made a huge mistake. . . .” She turned her face.

  “Me,” he said, his voice cracking.

  Riley jumped up, wrapped her arms around her son. “No. Never. You are not a mistake. You are a gift. I made a mistake in not telling you who he is . . . who he was.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  The answers she’d dreaded saying all these years fell into her mouth. “I was scared. I didn’t want him to . . . take you, or feel like he had to stay when he needed to go. But he would have loved you so much.”

  “Well, why don’t we . . . ?”

  “He died, Brayden. He died in a plane crash in Iraq.”

  “Just like that man whose parents scattered his ashes last week.”

  Riley closed her eyes. “Those were your dad’s ashes, Brayden. That’s why I made you stay.”

  He looked away, then stood. “Okay.”

  “His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge, are your grandparents. They’re coming for dinner tonight, because even if you never knew your father, you can know them. They’re an important part of your family, and they were very excited when I told them about you. They want to get to know you.”

  His blank stare brought panic rising in Riley’s belly. She moved toward him; he held up his hand. “Leave me alone.” He walked down the hall to his bedroom.

  She stood in the kitchen aware of all she was losing: the bookstore, her home, and her son’s trust. The hope that everything would work out seemed to fall into the gray realm of false dreams.

  Brayden emerged an hour later and spent the rest of the day at Pearson’s Pier, fishing by himself. Riley told herself she was just making sure he didn’t run off, but after she caught herself driving past the pier for the seventh time that afternoon, she decided to go home and stay there. She subdued her panic with busy-ness, as she’d always done—setting out groceries for the Rutledge dinner, inviting Adalee, Mama and Maisy to join them, starting to prepare a Lowcountry boil while playing a CD of James Taylor.

  Adalee arrived first at the bookstore café and gave Riley a long hug. “You okay?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’m pretty sure I did the right thing. I might not have before . . .”

  “Of course you did the right thing.”

  Maisy came in with an armful of flowers, a bottle of wine and a loud hello. “The party is here.” She made a face at Riley. “Mama says she can’t come. . . . She just isn’t quite strong enough to go out another night.” Maisy imitated their mother’s practiced words. “Personally, I think she just needs a wee bit more time to process the . . . information.”

  Riley took the flowers from Maisy and filled a tall vase with water. “Thank you so much. I don’t think I could do this dinner without you.” She looked away as she trimmed the stems with scissors. “And we might have to do this without Brayden. He hasn’t come home from fishing at the pier. I can’t chase him down and drag him here.”

  “I guess he didn’t take the news too well,” Adalee said.

  “He hasn’t said a word. It’s not his fault. It’s mine.”

  Adalee poured a glass of wine. “This is for you. I’ll be right back. I’m going to get that boy.” She ran out the door.

  Maisy grabbed the mismatched plates Riley had brought down from upstairs and set them on the table. “It’ll work out, Riley. I promise.”

  She turned to her sister. “Yeah, I’ll get to live with Mama in our old house with a son who hates me. Sounds awesome.”

  “You’ve read too many sad novels,” Maisy said just as a knock sounded on the front door.

  “Now I get to explain to the Rutledges why the grandson the
y came to meet isn’t here. What the hell was I thinking?”

  Maisy laid her hands on Riley’s shoulders. “Put a smile on and answer that door.”

  Riley walked over feeling as if the life she’d been living was falling apart with each step she took.

  Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge stood on the front porch holding hands, and Riley was struck by one certainty: she might have made a million and one mistakes in her life, but telling these kind people about their grandson was not one of them. She hugged each of them and invited them into the store.

  Mrs. Rutledge spoke first. “This is such a precious place. It’s just so comfortable and warm.”

  Riley nodded, swallowing over the lump of sorrow that seemed to be lodged in her throat. “Well, thanks to Maisy and Adalee, it looks better than it ever did.”

  The couple glanced around the store and Riley fought to find words to tell them that Brayden had run off, and she didn’t have enough control over him to make him come to dinner. She motioned for them toward the café. “Would you like some wine?”

  They shook their heads. “No, thank you, dear. We don’t drink,” Mrs. Rutledge said with a smile.

  “Sorry . . .”

  They grinned at each other in that knowing way of couples who have been together for decades. Riley thought of all the secrets between them, the private jokes. . . .

  Together they all moved into the café, and Riley poured two tall glasses of Pellegrino and handed them to the couple. “I’m sorry Brayden isn’t here yet. He often loses track of time while fishing. Adalee just left to drag him home.”

  Maisy greeted them and they stood around talking about the weather, the crowds and recent changes in the town. When the Rutledges asked about her job, Maisy made them laugh with her stories of customer eccentricities.

  For Riley, time passed in increments of interminable embarrassment before she finally asked everyone to sit down and she’d serve the food. She scooped a portion of shrimp and crab onto each plate, set out corn on the cob and sausage.

  “If Brayden is still out fishing, it looks like he inherited your love of the outdoors,” Mr. Rutledge said.

  Riley smiled at them. “Guess so, along with my stubborn refusal to come in when called.”

  “Well, I don’t know about you all, but I’m starving,” Maisy said. “Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge, please take your seats.”

  They sat, and the uncomfortable silence rang louder than any gong. Only James Taylor’s voice singing about being a friend filled the room.

  Finally Mrs. Rutledge laid down her corn on the cob. “This is delicious, Riley. I don’t mean to be . . . nosy, but can you please tell us a little bit about Brayden? We . . .” She took her husband’s hand. “We’re dying to know all about him. What does he like to do? What is he good at?”

  “Well, he’s funny in that way that Sheldon was, knowing just what to say at the right time. He’s an avid reader. He can fish all day . . . without realizing the time has passed. He seems to be popular at school. . . .”

  “I am not.” Brayden’s voice came from the back door. Adalee entered with him while brushing sand off her feet.

  Riley stood, relief flooding her body. “Hey, darling.” She hugged her son, and was so glad when he hugged her back.

  He turned to the table, walked over to Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge, shook their hands and said hello. He sat with a plate of food while Riley attempted to communicate her gratitude to Adalee without words.

  Brayden broke a crab leg in half, pulled the meat from the shell. “I’m really not popular at all. My mama thinks so because she has no idea.” He smiled when he said this, then put the entire length of meat into his mouth, and made a sound that resembled the word “awesome.”

  The conversation began to pick up as their words overlapped. Even as Riley ate and drank and offered her own comments, she was aware of hope rising like a buoy inside her. Maybe tonight was the start of something good.

  TWENTY-NINE

  MAISY

  The evening with Sheldon’s parents ended without promises or even future plans, but Maisy sensed the change in the air, like a spent storm leaving behind fresh, rain-washed skies. She finished washing the dishes while Adalee and Brayden played a long-promised game of Monopoly at a café table. As she listened to their sparring, a warm sense of belonging came over her. How had she ever thought it would be best to walk away from any of this?

  When she couldn’t find Riley, Maisy guessed where she had escaped to—the observation tower with a book. She slipped up the back stairs and found her sister seated in the wicker chair, bathed in a puddle of moonlight, staring out at the beach, an opposite shore from Maisy’s own place in the world.

  Maisy whispered from behind her, “I’m sorry, Riley.”

  Riley turned her head. “What? Isn’t that my line?”

  Maisy sat down on the splintered wooden deck next to her sister. “I always thought there was this life . . . you know, this other life. One where Mack and I were in love, married, living in some sitcom-perfect universe. I visualized our house, our kids. It was a life I thought existed in a parallel plane, and I couldn’t get to it. One event had made it impossible for me to claim that life—you sending Daddy out to get me from the party.”

  Riley lifted her hands. “I already . . .”

  Maisy pressed her forefinger to her sister’s lips. “Shhh . . . I’m not done. So, I’ve gone around for years imagining this other life. When things went wrong, or love didn’t work out, or I made a stupid choice, I thought, ‘Well, there you go. I was supposed to live that other life.’ ” She looked up at the moon. “But that life never existed. And it’s not your fault. Every choice has been mine. Every mistake has been mine.

  “When Mack showed up here, I was convinced I’d now have a chance to start that other life. The life I’d been waiting for.” Maisy sighed. “I went after him as if he was the answer.”

  “What happened?” Riley asked.

  “Nothing at all. I chased him around Palmetto Beach, and just when I thought I had a chance, he was called to the hospital for his dad. And I realized you can’t start where you stopped thirteen years ago. Or at least we couldn’t. It was gone: whatever spark had been there before, whatever fantasy I had been carrying around, didn’t exist anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” Riley said in a whisper.

  “Don’t pretend you’re sorry. Don’t pretend anything any longer, Riley. You love him. You always have. I knew it then and I know it now. I wanted to take your best friend away from you, and for a while, I did.”

  Riley looked away. “That’s not it.”

  “Why don’t you ever go after what you want? Why do you live like you’re scared out of your mind? As a kid you used to live a loud, risky life. Tomboy Riley could get the best of anyone. Now you’re a quiet bookseller trying not to make waves, trying to keep still enough so you won’t disturb your own world.”

  “I have commitments, obligations.”

  “What alternate life do you think you could have lived? One where you finished college and went off to New York City to be a writer? Or one where you married some rich guy from Charleston and had a butler?”

  “I don’t imagine another life, Maisy. I’m not like you.”

  “Well, for someone who doesn’t imagine another life, you’re sure not living this one. If I wrote your story, I’d tell you to run off and find Mack Logan, throw your arms around him and let him do whatever he was thinking about doing when he stared at you across the room the other night.”

  “His dad is dying, Maisy.”

  “That sounds like an excuse.”

  “Maisy, it’s different for me. You’ve always had men chasing you. I, on the other hand, need to know when a man has only feelings of friendship. I won’t fool myself into believing there is more than that when there . . . isn’t.” Riley stood, leaned against the banister. “So much is changing—where I’ll live; whether Mama will get better; what role Brayden’s grandparents will play in our lives. I mean, mayb
e I wanted something Mack made me feel and not him at all.”

  “Or maybe you wanted him. Why not take that chance?”

  “I can’t go back to what we had in childhood. I can’t relive those times, retrace my tracks and undo what’s been done. It’s not like writing a book and rewriting the ending to make it happier.”

  “You won’t know unless you take the chance. Take a risk, sister. Like you used to.”

  Riley looked down at her. “Like I used to?”

  “Yes. You were never scared of anything. Ever.”

  “Things change.”

  “Not the you inside. Not her.”

  “I’m glad at least you think so.” Riley turned away. “Anyway, I hope Mama is okay being home alone tonight.”

  Maisy let Riley change the subject. “She’s fine. Harriet is there.” She took a deep breath. “When do you think she’ll tell us about . . . the cancer? I can hardly say the word.”

  Riley shrugged. “We can’t push it.”

  “Well, I’m not going back to Laguna Beach until she does.” Maisy stood and leaned over the railing; she spoke to the sea more than to her sister. “I will not ever again allow the past to destroy the present. Right now is all we have. This . . .” She held out her hands to encompass the beach. “You go on to bed. I’ll just stand here and stare at the stars and figure out what in the hell to do with the only life I have.”

  Riley hugged her. “I do need to check on Brayden.”

  Maisy nodded.

  Riley walked down the steps to the apartment; Maisy felt the floor shake with each step she took. She stood gazing out at the sea, and the emptiness inside her began to dissipate, to fill in around the edges. It might take a long time, perhaps even a lifetime, to fill the hollowness, but she would no longer clutter it with lies, fantasies or excuses.

  Later that night, Maisy drove home with Adalee in the passenger seat, talking rapid-fire about how much fun the past week had been, how school would be terrible. Maisy laughed. “Is this the same girl who said we were ruining her life by making her come here?”