Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  Her eyes widened. “Bigger than the one next door?”

  “I have a plan.”

  Somehow, she didn’t have a hard time believing that. He seemed the type who had a plan for everything, smiling right along, and all the while the wheels were turning.

  She eyed him coolly. “What kind of plan?”

  “I want to knock it down.”

  Lily stared at him. He hadn’t batted an eye when he said it. “Knock it . . . down?”

  “I’m an architect,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I was halfway through building the one next door when I got an idea for a new design, a bigger and better design. I want to knock them both down and start over. But I’ll need both lots.”

  “But you just told me you built that house yourself. You haven’t even finished the fireplace.”

  “And I won’t have to if you sell me the cottage.”

  “I don’t understand.” And she really didn’t. “How can you think of knocking something down that you built with your own two hands?”

  “It’s just a house.”

  The response stunned her, or maybe it was just the cavalier way he’d said it. “It wouldn’t crush you to destroy a house you designed and built yourself?”

  “Not if I’m building something better. And it would be. I’ve actually had my eye on this property for years. I tried to grab it when I bought the lot next door.”

  His answer surprised her. “You wanted to buy Sand Pearl Cottage?”

  “Not the cottage, the property. But your aunt’s attorney wouldn’t even talk to me. Said she wasn’t interested in selling. So I settled for the single lot. Then, halfway through the build, I heard she died. Sorry, not to be morbid, but I never knew your aunt, so I thought, Here’s my chance. But when I called to inquire, I was told the property wasn’t for sale, that it had reverted to a family member. And now here you are.”

  “My father,” Lily said flatly.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The family member it reverted to was my father. He died two weeks ago.”

  Dean closed his eyes, shook his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . Damn it. Were you close?”

  “Pretty close, yes.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound callous, really. I forget how it is with some families.”

  Some families?

  If possible, Lily found the remark even more bizarre than his intention to bulldoze his own house. Were there families in which death didn’t elicit sadness? She tried not to think of her mother as she scooped up an armload of soup and carried it to the panty.

  “So, where’s home?” he asked, clearly trying to fill the sudden awkwardness.

  Lily pondered the question as she stacked her soup cans onto the pantry shelves, particularly the way it had been phrased. Most people said Where are you from? or Where do you live? Those were easy questions, with neat, factual answers. But he hadn’t asked her either of those, and she found herself groping for a response. Paris wasn’t home. It was where she’d gone to school, where she’d worked for years, made friends, met Luc. But it had never felt like home. And what of New York? She’d given up her apartment, lost touch with her friends. With her father gone there was nothing there for her, either. The realization startled her.

  “I was born in New York,” she said finally. “But I’ve been living in Paris on and off for the last nine years. It’s where I went to school. I’ve worked there pretty much ever since. And now I’m off to Milan.”

  “What do you do that takes you to all these exotic locales?”

  “I’m a fashion designer.”

  “Ah, we’re in related professions, then.”

  Lily cocked her head, curious and confused. “I design clothes. You design houses. How is that related?”

  “We both design things people live in.”

  “That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all. Clothes and houses have a lot in common. They’re both about image.”

  “And comfort,” Lily added pointedly. “They should be about comfort, too. Not just image.”

  Dean nodded, conceding her point. “Comfort. Sure. Now—back to business. We were talking about you selling me this place.”

  “Were we? I don’t remember that part.”

  He was annoying, but fascinating, too, with his odd mix of brashness and charm. The box-office smile didn’t hurt, either. And yet there was something just a little too self-assured about him, like someone used to getting what he wanted.

  “Okay, I was talking about it. But I believe you were about to say yes.”

  “Was I really?”

  His smile dimmed, becoming more businesslike, polite with just a hint of condescension. “You’re sitting on a very valuable piece of property, one that will net you a nice piece of change.”

  She was annoyed now, growing tired of his sales patter. “I don’t need change, Mr. Landry.”

  “Everyone needs change, Ms. St. Claire. Even daughters with trust funds.”

  Lily felt her hackles rise. All this time, he’d been baiting her, never once letting on that he knew who she was—or rather, who her father was. He’d been waiting to use it, like an ambush.

  “Is this how you generally conduct business, Mr. Landry? A charm offensive, followed by a wrecking ball?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, as if genuinely surprised that he’d offended her. “I just assumed—and maybe I shouldn’t have—that this place wouldn’t exactly be your cup of tea. I thought—hoped, actually—that you’d be eager to dump it. I’m not looking for a bargain or anything. I’m willing to pay fair market value. For the land, that is. The cottage isn’t of any value to me, obviously.”

  Lily shot him a too-sweet smile. “Oh, obviously.”

  “Was I wrong? Because if I was, and you’re planning to stick around, I’d be happy to help you get the place in shape. It needs some TLC, and I’m guessing a ton of structural stuff—roof, deck, probably the electrical, some plumbing—but there’s lots of potential, and I’ve been known to come in handy. I’m also a pretty fair tour guide if you’re looking for someone to show you Hideaway Key’s finer points.”

  He was flashing that smile again, all teeth and boy-next-door charm, and hoping to discourage her with a daunting list of repairs. The problem was, he was right on point. She wasn’t going to be here long. It didn’t make sense to hang on to the place if she was going to be half a world away. So why not make Dean Landry’s day and name her price?

  For starters, she had no idea what a fair price would be. But mostly, it had to do with the fact that she couldn’t bear the thought of a bulldozer smashing something that had been a gift from her father. It also had to do with a little girl and a magazine clipping, with secrets, and feuds, and an unsent letter. Everyone had a story, and Lily-Mae’s was here somewhere, in cardboard boxes and silver trinkets, even in the simple jar of shells displayed on her bureau. There would be plenty of time to decide the cottage’s fate, but not before she knew a little something about the woman who had called it home.

  “Mr. Landry—”

  “Please, call me Dean.”

  “Dean—I really haven’t decided what I’m going to do with the cottage, but at the moment you are wasting your time. I am not easily daunted, and I don’t rush decisions. When and if I decide to sell I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  Dean’s smile never faltered. “I’ll take that as my cue, then. If you change your mind I’ll be next door.” He turned away, stepping out onto the deck, apparently planning to take the back stairs. At the last minute, he stuck his head back in. “My offer still stands, by the way, about being your tour guide.”

  He saluted her then, with a smart click of his heels, and disappeared down the steps. It didn’t dawn on her until he was gone that she’d forgotten to thank him for bringing in her groc
eries.

  FIVE

  Lily felt like a child on Christmas morning: curious, excited, and just a little afraid that she would end up disappointed. She wasn’t sure what she expected the box to contain, but as she dragged back the flaps and stared at the jumbled contents she found herself more surprised than anything else.

  They were a child’s things, worthless to all but the one who had packed them away. One by one, she lifted them out—a handful of old lesson books bound together with twine, a small Bible in scuffed red calfskin, a rag doll missing one black button eye, a scarred leather picture frame that opened like a book.

  It was the rag doll that captured her interest first. Its very presence told Lily it had been precious once, but there was something forlorn about its flaccid limbs and blank expression, faded after so many years into near nothingness. It had had a name once, lost now after so many years, had been carried everywhere, a beloved friend and confidant. Suddenly, the idea of tossing the poor thing back in the box seemed unthinkable. Instead, she propped the doll against the bedside lamp, neatly crossing its arms and legs.

  Next, she picked up the frame. It felt fragile as she laid it open on her lap, the left side vacant, missing its small pane of glass, the right side still intact and in possession of its old black-and-white photo. Lily stared at the tiny family, faded with age and beginning to yellow, recognizing the youngest subjects instantly. Despite the obvious difference in ages—somewhere around six and ten—the girls looked uncannily alike, and far too much like Lily had as a child to be anyone but Caroline and Lily-Mae. Which meant the adults in the photo were her grandparents.

  Lily ran a thumb over the glass. It was strange to think of them as real. Aside from the fact that they’d lived somewhere in Tennessee, Caroline had never spoken of her parents—not their names, or fates, or anything at all. Now, suddenly, she was staring at them. The woman was beautiful, but there was a melancholy quality in the large, deep-set eyes, a hint of discontent that reminded her eerily of Caroline. The man’s face, too, seemed to tell a story, his expression rigid and resentful, as if he’d rather be anywhere in the world than where he was at that moment.

  Working the photograph free, she scanned the back for names, a date—anything that might give her an idea when or where it had been taken. There was nothing. After replacing the photo, she folded the frame closed and set it aside, wondering what it said about the sisters, that one had held on to these things—childhood things, family things—while the other had spent decades trying to erase that part of her life.

  She picked up the Bible next, a palm-size New Testament covered in coarse red leather. There was an inscription on the front page, so thin and badly slanted Lily had to squint to make it out.

  To Lily-Mae Boyle.

  Baptized June 14th, 1952.

  May God bless and keep you.

  Mama

  Mama.

  Lily sounded the word over and over in her head, letting the feelings it conjured wash over her. Warmth. Family. Love. Had her mother used the term as a child? It was hard to imagine—impossible, actually. From Lily’s earliest memory, Caroline had insisted on the more formal Mother. Cool. Distant. Loveless.

  Banishing the thought, Lily returned to the Bible, flipping idly through tissue-thin pages until she came across one that had been neatly folded down. Near the bottom, on the right-hand side of the page, a passage had been underlined.

  Blessed be ye poor: for yours is the kingdom of God.

  Had the underlining been the work of Lily-Mae, or her mama? There was no way to know, but the passage—the only one marked, as far as Lily could see—hinted at rather humble beginnings, circumstances that, if true, her mother had not only managed to conceal but had gone out of her way to reverse. It never occurred to her that Caroline St. Claire—polished to the point of hauteur—hadn’t always traveled in the best circles, worn the finest clothes, and spent her summers abroad.

  It was starting to occur to her now, though. In fact, it was starting to make a great deal of sense. Could all of it—the rancor, the arguments, the refusal to even mention her sister’s name—boil down to selfishness and pride? A need to distance herself from a less-than-rosy childhood and a beautiful sister with a past? It boggled the mind, though perhaps not as much as it should have.

  Aren’t families wonderful?

  Dean’s words floated into her head. They had seemed harsh at the time, but at that moment Lily was inclined to agree with him. Glancing at her watch, she was surprised to find it nearly eleven o’clock. No wonder she was wrung out. Half her brain was still on Paris time; the other half was running on empty after having stayed up half the night dissecting Lily-Mae’s unsent letter. And to top it all off, she’d skipped dinner.

  Lily eyed the final item in the box with waning curiosity, weighing her need for food against her need for sleep. There was tomorrow, after all, and a bundle of grammar school notebooks wasn’t likely to shed much light on a grown-up feud between sisters. Still, they had meant something to her aunt, or she wouldn’t have bothered to keep them. Sighing, she reached for the stack and tugged the twine knot free, sending the notebooks tumbling onto the spread.

  They were the old-fashioned kind, mottled black-and-white cover with a strip of black cloth tape running down the spine. On the nameplate of each, the name Lily-Mae Boyle appeared in loopy schoolgirl script. Lifting one from the pile, she turned to the first page, expecting lists of vocabulary words, or strings of math problems. Instead, she found herself looking at what appeared to be the carefully penned lines of a young girl’s diary.

  SIX

  July 17, 1953

  Mt. Zion Missionary Poor Farm

  It’s been a month now since Mama packed that suitcase and drove me and Caroline to Mt. Zion. I didn’t let myself cry as I watched her drive away. She made me promise to be brave, and to look after Caroline. So that’s what I was doing. I was being brave. Or at least pretending to be.

  Mama’s had her hands full lately, well, for a long time really, with Daddy being gone so much. It wasn’t new, him going off. He’d stay gone for weeks at a time, sometimes even months. Then one day the sheriff came knocking on the door. He told Mama that Daddy’d gone and gotten himself shot for cheating at cards, and that he wouldn’t be coming back. That’s when everything went bad, when Mama got lonely and the bourbon took hold of her.

  She used to be pretty—so pretty men’s heads would turn when she passed them on the street. Then she took to drinking, staying out nights, getting up later and later. It was up to me to get Caroline out of bed, to get her fed and make sure she got herself to school. I didn’t mind, but Caroline did. All of a sudden it was as if we weren’t sisters anymore. She didn’t get why I was always bossing her around and acting like her mama. She was too young to understand that her real mama couldn’t be there for her.

  And now we’re here—and Mama’s not.

  She’s gone off to find a new husband, someone to take care of us while she gets well. She promised to write, but it’s been weeks and we haven’t had a single letter. Maybe finding a husband’s going to be harder than she thought. Lord knows she never had much luck at home, except for Daddy—not that she didn’t try. She tried and tried and tried. I just wish she’d hurry. Mt. Zion isn’t a nice place.

  I worry a lot, mostly about my promise to look after Caroline. I don’t think I’m doing a very good job. All she does is cry and tote that stupid doll around everywhere she goes. Chessie. It’s a silly name for a doll, but that’s what she calls it now. I don’t know what she wants with the silly thing anyway. It’s only got one eye, and its hair’s all ratty. But then, it was already in bad shape when Mama made me give it over—and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t new when she first gave it to me. One day I’ll buy Caroline a new doll, a real one, with glass eyes and shiny hair, and then maybe she’ll stop crying.

  I don’t blame her for being sad. I’m sad, too, t
hough I try not to let her see. I miss home. I miss my books, and the room I shared with Caroline, the one with the window that looked out over that slimy old pond. Here, we’re crammed into small wooden houses called dorms, ten beds to a room, with one bathroom to share—like Noah’s Ark, only hotter, I expect, and without the rain.

  It hasn’t rained a lick since we got here. Everything’s covered with a fine yellow grit. It blows in through the screens, gets in my bed and in my hair, until I swear I can taste it at the back of my throat. Sometimes I think I’ll always taste it, no matter how far I ever get from this god-awful place. And one day I will get away.

  When Mama comes.

  The days are long and blistering hot, especially if you work in the laundry. That’s where they put Caroline and me. It’s where most of the young girls work. The older ones and the women go to the kitchen. We’re up before the sun. I hear the crickets sometimes, still singing while I dress and wash my face. Then, the minute breakfast is over, we’re up to our elbows in sheets, and towels, and uniforms from the prison over in Ransom. That’s where we stay until supper. The boys and men work in the barns, or out in the fields. Everyone works here.

  It’s atonement, Brother Zell tells us from his pulpit on Sundays, for the sin of being poor. Harwood Zell is the superintendent of Mt. Zion. He says poverty’s a disease that can only be cured by hard work and repentance, but that doesn’t sound quite right to me. Mama never was one for church, but she made us go to Sunday school every week, and I don’t recall them ever teaching us anything like that on Sunday mornings. In my Bible it says “blessed are the poor,” but maybe Brother Zell skipped over that part.

  I don’t understand him saying we need to repent of being poor. I never met a living soul—here at Mt. Zion, or anywhere else—that didn’t already repent of being poor. Not that it ever did them much good. It seems to me that poverty isn’t a disease at all, but more like a defect a person’s born with, like a harelip or a clubfoot. It marks you, so that for as long as you live folks’ll know you’re poor, and do their level best to keep you that way. That’s what Daddy used to say anyway.