Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  The cottage wasn’t likely to be an option after sitting vacant for more than a year. She’d need to find a motel, and soon. After two days behind the wheel, she didn’t care what the place looked like as long as it had a bed and a shower. She’d find someplace to grab a quick dinner, ask a local for directions to the cottage, give the place a once-over, and then find somewhere to crash. As for what came next, she had no idea. Until she’d gotten a good night’s sleep she refused to make anything resembling a plan.

  Dinner turned out to be an omelet and coffee at Sonny’s Omelet Barn, a bustling greasy spoon on the outskirts of town. Janice, her waitress, recommended two motels in Arcadia Beach, the next town south, then scratched out a rough map to the cottage on the back of a paper place mat.

  It took three U-turns, but Lily finally managed to locate Vista Drive, a narrow, winding lane lined with trees that looked as if they’d been transplanted from a jungle. As instructed, she followed the lane to the end, surprised when it opened up onto a broad cul-de-sac. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a house in sight.

  Lily checked the makeshift map again, assuming she’d missed a turn, but Janice’s directions clearly said to go to the end of Vista Drive. She was about to turn around when she noticed a set of mailboxes neatly camouflaged by an unwieldy gardenia bush, and just beyond, what appeared to be a pair of driveways branching off toward opposite sides of the cul-de-sac. After consulting the place mat one more time, she took the right-hand drive, leaning forward over the wheel to peer through the thickening canopy of foliage.

  The tires crunched noisily as she came to a stop at the end of the crushed-shell drive. She cut the engine, fished the cottage key from her purse, then stepped out onto the drive. It was the stillness she noticed first, not silence exactly, since there were birds trilling somewhere up in the trees, and the papery rustle of palm fronds overhead, but a sense of calm she hadn’t felt in years—or ever, really. And there was something else, too, beneath the quiet: a low, hypnotic thrum, like a pulse.

  It took a moment to identify the sound, and to realize it was coming from behind the trees. The sea. Searching for an alley or a walkway of some kind, she finally located a narrow slate path and ducked into the shadowy overgrowth, homing in on the sound until she broke from the hedges and out into a small clearing.

  There was a moment of confusion as she stood there, trying to reconcile the quaint cottage of her imagination with what actually stood before her—a decaying bungalow with drooping shutters, weed-choked window boxes, and a sadly sagging front porch. Maybe there had been some kind of mix-up. Maybe she had copied the address down wrong. But no, the peeling sign swinging over the porch clearly read SAND PEARL COTTAGE.

  Lily had no idea how long she stood there before she finally ventured up onto the front porch. She sighed as she surveyed further signs of neglect: flaking paint, windows rimed with salt and grit, and the desiccated remains of a pair of geraniums on either side of the front door. It wasn’t grand, and clearly never had been, but it had been charming once, before it had been allowed to go to ruin.

  Narrowly missing a rather formidable spiderweb, she reached for the screen door. The hinges moaned as she pulled it back, like something out of a slasher film. Lily thought vaguely of squatters and vagrants, and about the wisdom of entering the cottage alone, then shrugged off her concerns. This was the Gulf Coast of Florida, not Washington Heights. Places with names like Hideaway Key didn’t spawn vagrants and crackheads—did they? It was the spiderweb that finally convinced her, its size and location suggesting longevity. If anyone had gone in through the front door, they hadn’t done it recently.

  Breath held, she slid the key home, surprised when it turned with little resistance. Inside, the air was stale, thick with disuse and the faint pong of mildew, the way she’d expect an old attic to smell. She hovered in the doorway a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, then wondered if the power might still be on. Unlikely, after more than a year. Still, she found herself groping for a wall switch.

  She was surprised when the frosted globe overhead actually flared to life, but even more astonished when she glanced around the small living room. She hadn’t given much thought as to whether the cottage would be furnished, but she certainly hadn’t expected to find it crammed floor to ceiling with boxes. The sight almost made her dizzy: cartons of every shape and size, some sealed, some not, stacked side by side, one on top of another, so that they formed a kind of cardboard maze.

  But it wasn’t only the boxes that left Lily fighting a wave of claustrophobia. It was the clutter, a hodgepodge of chairs, tables, lamps, and knickknacks jammed into every square inch of the already tiny room; Lily-Mae’s things, by the look of them, still here more than a year after her death.

  Had no one wanted them?

  It was entirely possible. Her aunt had never married, one of the few facts Caroline had ever volunteered, clearly relishing her sister’s loveless, childless lot in life. It felt odd standing here now, among her things. She knew so little about the woman, almost nothing in fact, except that she’d been a bit famous once—a spokesmodel for some beauty cream or other—and had briefly caused quite a stir. It was all she knew, and even that she’d had to discover on her own, since her mother flew into a rage anytime Lily-Mae’s name was mentioned in her hearing.

  Her mother’s long-standing hatred still baffled her. But then, so much about Caroline St. Claire baffled her. Like why she refused to talk about her childhood, why there were no photographs of her as a girl, no yearbooks, or scrapbooks, or memorabilia of any kind—as if she refused to acknowledge any life at all before marrying Roland. And now there was Sand Pearl Cottage, this place her mother abhorred and begrudged her. Why?

  Lily stepped into the maze with a kind of morbid fascination, sidling carefully until she finally reached the opposite side of the room. The furniture, what she could see of it, was of good quality, but felt strangely formal for a seaside cottage, as if the contents of an entire Manhattan penthouse had been crammed into this tiny bungalow.

  There was a matching chair and settee in off-white brocade, a mahogany table with gracefully curved legs, and a beautiful writing desk finished in glossy black enamel. Lily switched on a small brass banker’s lamp and surveyed the items on the blotter—several good pens, a brass caddy stocked with tissue-thin sheets of pale blue stationery, a glass paperweight with some sort of scarab suspended inside. If she’d been hoping to find evidence of her aunt’s sordid past here, she was clearly wasting her time.

  It was nearing full dark, Lily saw, as she turned to peer out the sliding glass doors, only the faintest blush of peach lingering along the crease between sea and sky. She fumbled a bit before locating the latch, but finally the door slid back, letting in a rush of sea sounds and salt-tanged air. She couldn’t see much as she stepped out onto the deck. There were a pair of white plastic chairs, and a narrow set of steps leading down to the beach, not that she had any intention of using them in the dark. Instead, she folded her arms close to her body and held very still.

  The breeze played havoc with her hair, whipping at the ends of her ponytail, teasing strands free to tickle the nape of her neck. On impulse, she tugged her scrunchie free, letting the wind have its way. The humidity would play hell with it, but she didn’t care. She closed her eyes and simply held still, reveling in the briny air and the achingly sweet music of the sea.

  She couldn’t say how long she stood there before finally drifting back to reality, but the glow on the horizon had faded, leaving the sky an inky shade of indigo. She was struck by the darkness, by the absoluteness of it, as if someone had snuffed out the world with a heavy blanket. In New York—or in Paris, for that matter—it was never completely dark. There was always light, always people going places and doing things.

  She’d found it exhilarating once, back when she was fresh out of school and ready to take the world by storm. But life had a way of tarnishing dre
ams. It didn’t care about your résumé, your trust fund, or your last name. It brought you back to reality with a bump—sometimes more than one. And it could land you in some pretty unexpected places, though there were certainly worse places to languish than a cottage by the sea.

  She might have lingered out in the dark if she hadn’t been so exhausted, but there was still the matter of sleeping arrangements to be dealt with. Stepping back inside, she was struck once more by the sheer number of boxes in the tiny living room. What was it all, and what was it doing here? Were the rest of the rooms like this? The thought made her head spin. What if this barely controlled chaos was just the tip of the iceberg? She glanced at her watch. It was already heading for nine, but the full tour wouldn’t take long. There were only a handful of rooms, and she’d at least know what she was dealing with.

  There was a small sunporch off the living room. Just as she had feared, the small space was chock-full of cartons, stacked in corners, piled on chairs, and spilling out into the narrow hallway. She fared no better in the small bedroom facing the driveway, a guest room presumably, furnished with a pair of Bahama beds, a small table, and a lamp, and dizzily stacked with more boxes. Sighing, she turned away. Other than the kitchen and breakfast nook, both of which appeared to have escaped the clutter, there was only one room left, a slightly larger bedroom situated at the back of the cottage, with a pair of glass sliders that opened onto the deck.

  Lily peered in from the doorway but couldn’t make out much with just the glow from the overhead hall light. Groping blindly, and somewhat noisily, she finally managed to locate a lamp and flip the switch, then groaned audibly as she took in her surroundings. No boxes, at least, but so much . . . stuff. Then it hit her—these were Lily-Mae’s things, her personal things, all precisely as they had been the day she died.

  All her life, Lily had longed to know more about her aunt. Now, inexplicably, she found herself standing in the woman’s bedroom. It was a vaguely unsettling sensation, as if she had stepped into someone else’s shoes—and someone else’s life.

  The thought was like a breath on the back of her neck, chilly and warm at the same time. She hadn’t given much thought to what she might find when she arrived, but even if she had she would never have imagined Lily-Mae’s things would still be here. And what things they were. Everywhere she looked there seemed to be some new piece of treasure: leather-bound books, exquisite porcelains, bits of silver and fine-cut crystal, all displayed like museum pieces about the room.

  All except one, that is.

  Lily stepped to the bow-front bureau, eyeing the simple jar of seashells placed carefully at its center. She ran a thoughtful finger around the rim, thick and bubbly with just a hint of green in the glass. It felt wrong somehow. In any other beach house a jar of shells would be standard décor, part of the natural seaside ambiance. But her aunt’s tastes had clearly run toward the formal, leaving Lily to wonder why such a simple thing had been singled out for what felt like a place of honor.

  One more question without an answer.

  It was ironic. All her life she’d been denied Lily-Mae’s story, denied the chance to know who she was and what she had done that was so very wrong. Now, through no effort of her own, she found herself smack-dab in the middle of that story, apparently tasked with sifting through the remnants.

  She had her father to thank for that—or to blame for it. Had he known all of this was here when he arranged to leave her the cottage, or was it all merely chance? Perhaps he’d meant to have the place cleared out but never got around to it. His death had been sudden, and it would explain all the boxes. There was no way to know. And it didn’t really matter. Whatever the reason, it was hers to handle now.

  But when, and how? She was supposed to be in Milan by the end of the month. There simply wasn’t time to deal with all this—whatever it was. In fact, just thinking about it made her head hurt. A hotel. A shower. A bed. She needed all three before she could begin thinking about logistics.

  Exhausted, and dangerously close to tears, Lily reached for the lamp, preparing to switch it off when she spotted the book on the nightstand. Wuthering Heights had always been a favorite of hers. Apparently it had been one of Lily-Mae’s as well. The book had been read often, its dark leather spine worn shiny-smooth, its pages well thumbed. And it appeared there was a passage marked, a scrap of paper peeking from between the pages—perhaps where Lily-Mae had left off reading?

  Curious, Lily eased down onto the bed and slid the copy of Wuthering Heights into her lap, turning to the casually marked page. She was expecting to find a bookmark. Instead, she found a sheet of pale blue stationery folded between pages 264 and 265. She spread the sheet flat, running a finger along the center crease to smooth it, then sat staring at the lines of loopy, elegant script. Whatever it was, it was dated October 1994, approximately one month before her aunt’s death.

  A letter? A confession of some sort?

  Lily couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt. It was silly, she knew. Lily-Mae was dead and gone, and had been for more than a year. She just wasn’t sure that gave her the right to peer into someone’s private thoughts. Still, the lines beckoned.

  October 2, 1994

  I have been reading Wuthering Heights again tonight—about Catherine Earnshaw and the poor end she made. I am like her, though, in many ways, and have begun to wonder about my own end, about the pain I have caused, and the pain I have endured. Perhaps they will balance. I don’t know. Still, I have had my day in the sun, my brief but shining moment, as they say, and can cling now to that time, to what was sweet, and right, and good. I have much to mourn, but little to regret as my days wind down. We do what we must, after all, to guard our hearts—and the hearts of others. Such a fragile thing, the heart, so easily broken and robbed of its secrets. But strong, too, when it must be. Twice I have loved, and twice I have lost, the pain of it like dying. But now, at the end of things, I find I would not make different choices. I have loved with my whole heart, have tasted both sin and sorrow, and have made my peace—not only with what was, but with what could not be. It is our lot in this life, to love and to lose. We flail for a time, afraid of drowning in our grief, and then finally go quiet, content to simply drift when our horizons are lost and there is nothing left to swim to. Soon even my drifting will be over. I will not send this. I meant to when I began it, but find now that I cannot. There is too much truth in it for sharing, even with you—even now.

  Lily read over the poignant words a second time, and then a third. It was a letter, obviously, but a letter to whom? And for that matter, by whom? The date would seem to confirm her suspicions that Lily-Mae was the author, but without a greeting or signature, there was no way to be sure. It was moving, whoever had written it, the language dark and vaguely haunting. But it was the opening passage that resonated with Lily, the reference to poor Catherine Earnshaw, doomed to wander the moors for all eternity after a life of tragic mistakes, forever separated from her beloved Heathcliff.

  It felt odd, though, somehow, unexpected. Perhaps because literary references didn’t quite dovetail with her mother’s lurid accounts of Lily-Mae, which tended to conjure images of a libertine who smoked cigars and sipped sugar-laced absinthe, swore like a sailor, and wore fishnets to church. Hardly the stuff of a Brontë heroine, or a Brontë reader, for that matter.

  Lily stifled a yawn as she folded the tissue-thin sheet back along its crease and prepared to return it to the book. One thing was certain. She wasn’t going to solve the mystery tonight. She’d read it again tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep. Or maybe she’d read it just once more.

  THREE

  Lily squinted at her watch but gave up when her eyes refused to focus. She felt vaguely headachy as she propped herself up on one arm. Something was wrong. There was sunlight streaming into the room, great yellow puddles of it splashing across unfamiliar sheets. And she was still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

 
It came back to her in a snatches. Wuthering Heights. Catherine Earnshaw. An unsent letter, read and reread into the wee hours. Words teased carefully apart, like a riddle that needed solving, until she’d finally collapsed into a fitful sleep, Lily-Mae’s letter still in her hand, its words still running through her head.

  She looked around for the letter, finally spotting it on the floor. Retrieving it, she folded it neatly and returned it to the pages of Wuthering Heights. There was no need to read it again. The words were already burned into her memory, and would be for a very long time. Twice I have loved, and twice I have lost, the pain of it like dying . . . I . . . have tasted both sin and sorrow. So much grief for one page—and one lifetime.

  And far too many questions to be dealt with before she’d had at least one cup of coffee. Donning mental blinders, she ventured out into the parlor, pretending to ignore the chaos as she navigated a path to the sliding glass doors. Maybe some fresh air would help her get her bearings.

  She frowned at the year’s worth of salt and grime obscuring the large glass panes, wondering as she fumbled with the latch if there was enough Windex in the state of Florida to ever get them clean. The thought evaporated as she stepped outside, her breath caught suddenly in her throat.

  The sheer expanse of bright blue water was unexpected somehow, like a gleaming gem in the late-morning sun, the blinding stretch of pearl-white sand unmarred by so much as a footprint. It was the emptiness that caught her off guard, the sensation that she was alone in the world. She didn’t mind it. She was fine with alone. She liked alone. Perhaps a little more than was good for her.

  Eyes closed, she tipped her face to the sky, reveling in the buttery warmth of the sun and the beguiling sensation that nothing mattered but here and now. But it wasn’t true. Here and now wasn’t real. Milan was real. Her father’s death was real. The mess back inside the cottage was real. Only she didn’t want to think about any of those things. For once in her life, she didn’t want to think about anything, do anything, be anything.