“I have booty, Riley.”
“What?”
“It’s not traditional buried treasure, but I think it counts. You listening?”
“Hmmm.”
“Here it is,” Maisy said, yet Riley heard another sound on the phone, a laugh.
“Are you on the phone, Adalee?” Riley asked.
“How did you know?”
“What is going on? Aren’t you in Texas with Mama?”
“I am,” Adalee said. “But I didn’t want to miss this phone call. I’ve been working with Maisy and—”
Maisy spoke over Adalee’s words. “Beach Chic wants to open their first East Coast store—a coastal satellite store. They will need a space for display and design work.”
“Oh, that’s great for you, isn’t it?”
“What this means is that I will be opening a Beach Chic store and design center. Adalee will work there while finishing her degree here at the local college.”
“Oh, Adalee, that is amazing. Where?”
“Driftwood Cottage.”
Riley’s breath caught on the possibility. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
“Yes!” Maisy screamed into the phone so loud that Riley pulled it away from her ear. “Beach Chic will pay half the mortgage for a full year as a test. Adalee will run the design section and I’ll be training Lucy to run the retail section. You’ll run a smaller version of the bookstore and still live upstairs. I have been working on this business plan day and night for two weeks. It’s official. Do not sell Driftwood Cottage. We’ll go over all the papers tonight; the Beach Chic lawyer drew up papers and it can work. It really can. Tons of details, but I know how to do this.”
“I haven’t . . . signed yet. I was waiting for Mama to read the offer.”
“Tear it up. Now.”
“Maisy, you can’t leave your life, your job . . . all that. You can’t leave California.”
“Well, I only rented my apartment, so I’ll end my lease and then go back and get my things. I have some logistics to work through, and who knows what the future holds . . . ? I’m just going to take it day by day. First thing is getting this store started and opened.”
“Then,” Riley said, “we did it. We, together. All of us.”
“Meet me at the house in a couple hours, okay? We’ll go over the specifics.”
“I will. I will.” Riley hung up, and then ran to the back of the house and shoved open the door to the shed. Rusted hinges scattered iron dust. She flicked on the overhanging naked bulb and squinted into the dancing dust motes until she found what she needed: the handsaw.
She ran to the front lawn, her bare feet pressing into the dew-soaked earth, and she made one phone call. Then she squatted in front of Mimi’s wooden for-sale sign shoved deep into the ground. She began to saw the middle of the post. Laughter bubbled below the surface of her exertion, yet she would not allow its release until she heard the thwack of the sign falling into the grass.
Riley stood over the sign and her laughter rose sweet and soft. A small crowd had gathered without her noticing and she turned to their wide-eyed stares. There she stood with mud and grass on her jeans and tank top, her hair disheveled, her face sweaty.
“It’s not for sale,” she said, as if this explained her lunatic behavior.
Mrs. Lithgow came from behind a tall man. “Well, dear, I should hope not. Seeing as you are trespassing, I must insist that you leave as soon as possible.”
Lodge’s voice came from the back of the crowd. “Riley,” he called, and then he was at her side. “You need some help with that?”
“Nope, I definitely got it.”
Lodge turned to the crowd. “Show over, folks. Feel free to go on about your business.” Then he turned to Riley. “Okay, this is why you called. You have to let me take a picture. I see the makings of a great article. What’s up?”
“Well, Maisy convinced her company from California to open a satellite store here in the cottage. They’ll take the storage room and probably some more space, but we’ll rearrange.”
“So where will you live?”
“Still here . . . for now.”
“That’s all we have, isn’t it?” he asked, looking back at the cottage. “Now.”
She nodded. “Yes, now. And then a little bit more of it each day.”
He looked at her, smiling, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Exactly, my friend.”
EPILOGUE
TWO MONTHS LATER
Humidity had moved into Palmetto Beach with its full August force; a haze settled over the town in somnolent heat. For months now, Riley, Maisy, Adalee and Lucy had been rearranging and redesigning the bookstore and design business in the cottage. Now Riley was taking a break with Brayden; they stood in silence at the end of Pearson’s Pier, their fishing poles held over the water.
Riley reeled in her line, checking to make sure the bait was still on the hook. She spoke to Brayden over the far-off screech of a seagull. “You don’t mind so much that I’m fishing with you today, do you?”
“Of course not.” He rolled his eyes.
“You liked it better when I didn’t?” she asked, and smiled at him from under her straw hat.
He lifted his baseball cap and rubbed his forehead. “Whatever, Mom.” Then he tilted his head, squinted, yanking his cap back over his head. “Geez, that looks exactly like Mr. Logan over there.”
Riley spun around and watched a man walk down Pearson’s Pier, his stride long, a grin on his face.
Mack.
She smiled at him, feeling as buoyant as if she were floating above the wooden pier even as the voice in her head reminded her—Only friends. She’d imagined he’d return to visit someday, but that day always seemed in the future. Now he was here.
He reached her side. “Hey, Minnow.” He turned to Brayden. “Hey, buddy, what’s up?”
“Mr. Mack. How’s it going?” He lifted his hand for a high five.
“Good. I’m glad to be here.” Mack gave Brayden’s hand a slap high in the air before he turned to Riley.
“Welcome back to Palmetto Beach,” she said.
He held his arms wide, then gathered her into an embrace. She allowed her cheek to rest on his chest for a few moments, listening to the soft sound of his breath.
Mack released her, shuffling his feet as if unsure which way he wanted to go. “Hey, Brayden,” he said. “Can I talk to your mom for a minute?”
“When a teacher says that, it means I’m in trouble.”
Mack laughed. “You’re not in trouble. We’ll be right back.”
“No problem.” Brayden turned his attention back to his fishing pole.
Mack made a motion for Riley to follow him and they began walking down the pier.
“What’s going on?” she asked him, her heart high in her throat, beating too fast.
“I came to see my best friend.” He stopped at the end of the pier and turned to face her.
“That’s sweet,” she said. “How’s your dad? And how are you?”
“Dad is stable; but he is at home with hospice care.”
“This must be really hard on your mom.” Riley paused, wanting to reach out, touch him. “I’m sorry your family is going through this.”
“Thanks.” He looked away, over the water, and then back at her. “Thing is, even though I don’t want Dad to be sick, in a way his illness has been a gift to all of us, to our entire family. The trip here with him opened my eyes to parts of my life that were . . . off balance. The time with my family has made me realize that what is important has nothing to do with . . . things. I quit my job.”
“Why?” She reached out to touch his hand, then withdrew it, still not understanding why he was here, what he needed.
“It wasn’t what I really wanted, and well . . . being here reminded me of what I do want. And that has nothing to do with high-rises and corporate ladders and big accounts. I want to design and build houses. Always have. I don’t know why I forgot what I already knew.
. . .”
“Because life got in the way?”
“Yes.” He paused. “You know, I’ve almost called you a million times, but I haven’t been sure how to say what I need to say.”
“You can say anything to me, right?” Riley said, her stomach rising and falling in a reminder of the time she rode the Tilt-a-Whirl with Brayden at the county fair.
“I know what’s true,” he said.
“And what is that?”
“When I left you on the beach a couple months ago, you said that being best friends was enough for you, but it’s not enough for me anymore.”
Riley stared at him. “It’s not?”
He shook his head. “No. Is it really enough for you?”
“No,” she admitted, hope and relief filling her. “I wanted it to be, but it’s not. Definitely not with you standing here looking at me like that.”
He held out his hand for her to take, smiling in a way that made her heart fill with the bright possibilities and profound joy promised by this new chapter of her life, which now included Mack Logan. The past and the future converged in that moment, and she stepped forward, entwined her fingers through his. Her story, all of their stories, would continue.
BOOKS MENTIONED IN DRIFTWOOD SUMMER
Howards End—E. M. Forster
The Screwtape Letters—C. S. Lewis
Beach Music—Pat Conroy
Peachtree Road—Anne Rivers Siddons
The Stand—Stephen King
To Kill a Mockingbird—Harper Lee
Wuthering Heights—Emily Brontë
Gone With the Wind—Margaret Mitchell
The Secret Life of Bees—Sue Monk Kidd
Walking on Water—Madeleine L’Engle
Treasure Island—Robert Louis Stevenson
Where or When—Anita Shreve
Shrimp & Grits Cookbook—Nathalie Dupree
Patti Callahan Henry lives with her husband and three children near Atlanta, Georgia, along the Chattahoochee River. Visit her Web site at www.patticallahanhenry.com.
CONVERSATION GUIDE
Driftwood Summer
PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY
This Conversation Guide is intended to enrich the
individual reading experience, as well as encourage us
to explore these topics together—because books,
and life, are meant for sharing.
CONVERSATION GUIDE
A CONVERSATION WITH PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY
Q. What inspired this story?
A. During the past five years, I’ve traveled extensively for book tours, literary festivals and speaking events. I’ve listened to people’s stories, and I’ve noticed recurring themes in some of the situations that touch our lives—our complicated relationships with family, the pain of lost love, the challenge of breaking free from the past and the sadness we feel at the disappearance of beloved community gathering places. Bookstores, libraries and book festivals seem to be places where, through the vehicle of books and book clubs, people talk more openly about their lives. I wanted to tell a story that integrated some of the concerns that matter most to us.
The sisters in this story relate to one another through the veil of past hurts, old loves and ingrained patterns of communication. Throwing three slightly estranged sisters into a situation in which they absolutely must work together allowed me to create a story of family and community healing.
Q. The beach and a bookstore—two of my favorite things. Are they among your favorites, too? Are any of the customers we meet in the bookstore based on real people?
A. I love beaches and bookstores, and figured my readers would, too! In my novels, none of the characters is based on real people, yet many are composites of people I’ve known. Some of the customers in the novel are also inspired by readers I’ve met over the years.
I set the novel in a bookstore because I am intrigued by the powerful influence of bookstores and libraries in my own life. Once inside a good bookstore, I lose track of time. Bookstores are more than places to buy merchandise. They are “gathering places” in many senses—where people gather, where I gather my thoughts. The endless stories in the books leave me with a full feeling, as if life will never be long enough to take in all the beauty of the written word. I am also fascinated with the role of books since they seem to be the perfect medium through which we share our hurts and pleasures, loves and lives.
Q. You’re one of three sisters. Are you as different from your sisters as Riley is from Maisy and Adalee? What divides you and your sisters? What binds you together?
A. I didn’t base the Sheffield girls on me and my sisters. Like most siblings, we’re very much alike in some ways and profoundly different in others. I’m the oldest, which might make you think I’m the organized, type-A one in the family, but I’m not at all. My sisters, Barbi and Jeannie, are much more rational and organized, taking after our mother. I believe they tolerate my eccentric ways out of love. All that divides us right now is geographical distance and the all-encompassing needs of raising families with young children. What binds us together is shared history and love. . . . Our family is a very open and boisterous constellation. The past doesn’t seem to have a hold on our relationships since we don’t allow hurts to fester. As far as I know, none of us has ever loved the same boy. We talk through situations with a little sarcasm and a lot of honesty, hopefully keeping the past from influencing the present.
Q. This novel speaks to the importance of books in our lives. What role have they played in your life?
A. As a child I was a bookworm. I actually remember getting in trouble for ignoring the family because I was reading too much. My parents and sisters often teased me about always having my “nose in a book.” We often cannot explain why we love someone or something or someplace; and I can’t explain why I love to read. I just do. Always have. Of course I do believe it has something to do with the power of story.
When I was twelve years old, my family moved from our hometown up north to south Florida—and this is where my real love affair with novels began. For many years I didn’t have many good friends. Books were some of my best friends. They still are.
Q. Memories of childhood summers spent at the beach are especially meaningful to Riley and Mack. Have you ever spent a whole summer at the beach? What was that experience like for you?
A. Growing up as a preacher’s daughter, I was blessed each summer when Dad took a “reading month” in preparation for the busy fall church calendar. We escaped to Cape Cod, where we spent the entire summer running over dunes, through cranberry bogs and in and out of thick woods. These are my fondest memories of my childhood. I believe those were the days where my imagination grew, where my love of reading and nature was stitched into my soul.
There was more freedom in those summer days than during the school year. My sisters and I built forts, sailed our tiny Sun-fish around the lake and only came back inside to eat. Once a week we went to the library—my favorite day. I would check out as many books as we were allowed to and read them all before we returned the next week. Those library days are a large part of why I write today; my love of books and story began there, in the long, languid days of childhood summers.
Q. In the novel, Driftwood Cottage Bookstore acts as a community gathering place. More than just a place to hang out and buy books, it serves to bring people together and foster meaningful relationships. As you’ve visited bookstores to promote your work, what role have you seen real-life bookstores play in people’s lives?
A. I’ve visited some of the most nurturing bookstores in the Southeast—places where people gather to talk about books and writing, to meet a friend for coffee, to buy a gift, or to chat with an author whose work they admire. They are places where a certain magic occurs. As people begin to talk about a story or the writing process, they also begin to talk about themselves. They connect. Acquaintances become friends, sometimes close friends. I love watching that process and being part of it.
It breaks my
heart when I hear about another bookstore closing due to the financial challenges they face today. Libraries are also facing budget cuts and are hurting for funding. It is so important that, as readers and writers, we support our local bookstores and libraries. Sometimes we just don’t know how much we value something until it’s gone!
Q. Kitsy Sheffield seems to be a Southern woman of a certain generation, who places great importance on appearance, etiquette and gracious living. None of her daughters is quite following in that tradition. Does that reflect real changes between generations of women in the South today?
A. I think (or hope) that we, as women, are beginning to care less and less about what people think and care more and more about what we think, about our contribution to the world and to others. It’s a challenge in any woman’s life—balancing her own beliefs, needs and passions with the needs of her family. I wanted to touch on this subject while showing the sisters beginning to awaken to their own self-fulfillment.
Q. In several of your novels, including this one, you’ve explored the idea that each of our lives forms a story. Would you care to comment on this idea of life as story?
A. Ever since I was a young child, I’ve looked at my life and thought, “I wonder what will happen next.” In this way, I’ve always looked at life through the lens of story. I don’t believe anything happens by coincidence, and I often wonder what a chance encounter or new experience will mean in the long run of any life. If I pay attention, I often see threads in my life that intertwine, separate and come together again.
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