Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  “It’s Lily,” she said curtly when the beep finally ended. “I was going through some boxes at the cottage, childhood things of Lily-Mae’s. There are some things . . . some questions. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. Call me at this number as soon as you get my message.”

  She could only imagine her mother’s reaction when she returned home later this afternoon and checked her machine. She wouldn’t be happy, that much was certain. When it came to questions about Lily-Mae, Caroline St. Claire was a master of obfuscation, dodging questions outright when she could, and resorting to the smoke screen of innuendo when she couldn’t. Well, not this time. This time she would be armed with cold, hard facts. This time she’d finally get the truth. In the meantime, maybe she’d take the new bikini out for a spin.

  Twenty minutes later, she was making her way cautiously toward the water’s edge, reminding herself for the third time that this part of the beach was private. She wasn’t going to run into anyone she knew, or anyone she didn’t, for that matter. Sadly, that didn’t keep her from feeling ridiculously conspicuous—a ghost-white tourist in a tell-all bikini, grappling with a straw hat she could barely keep on her head.

  By the time she finally got her blanket spread out and her beach bag unpacked, she was out of breath, sticky with sweat, and wondering why anyone in their right mind would come to the beach for rest and relaxation. Though she had to admit, she liked the idea of having an entire beach to herself. No noise. No intrusions. Just the sea and the sun. In fact, if she wasn’t careful, she could get used to this.

  She scanned the shoreline to the north, hazy with sea spray and the shimmer of hot sands, as she began slathering on sunscreen. From beneath the brim of her hat, she was able to make out a man in bright blue trunks, romping with what appeared to be a very large yellow dog. She watched them for a moment, playing catch at the water’s edge with a heavy stick, the man hurling the stick far out into the waves, the dog plunging in after it. It was hard to tell who was having more fun.

  Wiping the slippery goo from her hands, she eased back onto her blanket, trying not to imagine what her mother would say if she could see her now, stretched out in the sun like some sort of a sacrificial offering. Freckles—the curse of every redhead—were the one lesson her mother had ever bothered to teach her. Freckles were not beautiful. Freckles came from the sun. Therefore, the sun was the enemy.

  Caroline St. Claire knew a little something about beauty, though she’d never been the celebrated beauty her sister was. It was one of the few things Lily actually did know about Lily-Mae, that her likeness had once been plastered on billboards and in magazines, the iconic face of some beauty cream or other. And even that, she had learned by accident—if you counted snooping and eavesdropping as accidents. And now she was snooping again, this time in the pages of a young girl’s diary.

  Rolling onto her belly, she propped herself up on her elbows and reached for the notebook in her beach bag, opening to where she’d left off the night before. She stared at the neatly penned lines, noting the subtle evolution of the handwriting over time. The letters were less loopy in this third notebook, thinner and more elongated, but still sloped noticeably. Even the words felt less childlike. And why wouldn’t they? She was telling things no child should ever know, let alone live through. Things even Lily wasn’t sure she was ready to know. But she needed to know them. If for no other reason than they had shaped her mother’s life, as well as her aunt’s, and might finally answer so many questions. About her mother, her aunt, and perhaps even her father.

  Her aunt and her father.

  The thought bobbed to the surface like a bit of old wreckage, begging to be examined. Was it possible? That Lily-Mae had once been interested in Roland was no secret. Whether her father ever returned that interest, however, had always been less clear. If asked, her mother would say no, but Roland St. Claire was a man, presumably as susceptible to the charms of a beautiful woman as the next red-blooded male—and Lily-Mae had been nothing if not beautiful. Was it possible that more than a flirtation had arisen between them? The kind of thing that smoldered quietly, and made wives and sisters jealous? It would certainly explain Caroline’s hatred of Lily-Mae, and might explain Lily-Mae leaving Roland the cottage, as a remembrance of the affection they once felt for each other. But when? Before or after he had married Caroline?

  An affair.

  It was hard to imagine, and not just because pairing the words father and infidelity made her squirm. Roland St. Claire wasn’t the champagne-and-roses type—or the philandering type, either. He was married to his work, to his trusts and his foundations, too busy conferencing, or organizing, or traveling on business, to get bogged down in matters of the heart. In fact, she often wondered if that was why he had married her mother. In Caroline, he had chosen a wife as romantically detached as himself, a partner who would play the part but never ask for more than he was able to give.

  Had she been a compromise, then? A woman who looked like Lily-Mae but would make no demands on his heart? The possibility wasn’t at all far-fetched, and it certainly brought the animosity between the sisters into a new light. The question was how to broach these suspicions with her mother.

  Lily was still wrestling with the question when she felt a sudden coolness steal across her bare back, as if a cloud had drifted in front of the sun. Shoving back the brim of her hat, she turned to peer over one shoulder. Dean Landry stood grinning down at her, bare-chested and soaking wet in a pair of bright blue board shorts. The yellow dog at his side grinned at her, wagging from head to tail.

  Damn.

  She had enough on her mind without having to dodge a man whose sole purpose in being friendly was to get his hands on the cottage. She thought she’d made herself clear. If and when she decided to sell, she’d be sure to let him know. Until then, she preferred he keep his distance—and keep his charm to himself.

  “Studying for a vocabulary test?” he asked, pointing at the notebook in her hand.

  Lily closed the notebook and tucked it out of sight. “It belonged to my aunt. Who’s your friend?”

  “This drowned rat?” He paused, giving the damp yellow head a pat. “This is Dog.”

  Lily sat up, frowning. “That’s his name? Dog?”

  “I figured it was as good as anything else, and he answers to it, so . . .”

  “Seriously? You couldn’t come up with something more creative than Dog?”

  “I suppose I could have, if I’d meant to keep him, which I didn’t. He showed up one day at one of the job sites, a mangy rack of bones bumming lunch scraps off the crew. I asked around but no one knew where he belonged, so one day I loaded him in the truck and took him home. The plan was to give him a bath, fatten him up, then palm him off on one of the construction guys, but he sort of got comfortable in the meantime. He doesn’t eat much, so I figured why not?”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Four years, give or take.”

  “So maybe it’s time?”

  “Time for what?”

  “To give him a proper name.” Lily reached out, giving one blond ear a scratch. “He’s a handsome boy. He deserves better than plain old Dog, don’t you think?”

  Another shrug. “Never thought much about it. But honestly, I don’t think he cares who he belongs to or what I call him, as long as there’s food in his dish. Names are just words we stick on things so we can pretend they belong to us.”

  Names are just words?

  Lily fought to keep her face blank. He’d done it again: dropped another curious one-liner into a perfectly normal conversation. Yesterday it had been about families. Today it was names. Who didn’t believe in names, for crying out loud? And as for Dog not caring who he belonged to, one had only to look at that wagging tail and those adoring brown eyes to know exactly who the poor thing belonged to.

  She looked up at him, silhouetted against the bright blue
sky, letting her gaze linger on broad wet shoulders, a flat expanse of tan, taut belly. After a moment, she dragged her eyes back to his face. She didn’t have time for distractions, especially one that looked like Dean Landry.

  “Did you need something?”

  Dean ignored the question. “You do realize you won’t get much sun wearing that hat?”

  Lily lifted the hat briefly, pointing to her ponytail. “Redhead, remember? We don’t tan; we burst into flames. Or freckles, which, according to my mother, is a far worse fate.”

  “I see. That explains the SPF fifty-six, I guess. So why drag all this stuff out here if you’re not working on your tan?”

  “Would you believe I wanted to soak up a little of the local ambiance?”

  “Sure I would. Best beaches in the state, right here. But you’ll need more sunscreen if you’re going to be here three weeks. Sun’s pretty intense this time of the year. Nice suit, by the way. Very . . . flattering.”

  Lily resisted the urge to drag the blanket up around her. He was doing it again. Fishing for answers, hanging around where he wasn’t wanted—and flirting. She chose not to play along. “I doubt I’ll have much time for sunbathing. I was just taking a break to finish up some reading before I dive into the boxes.”

  Dean sent Dog off to amuse himself, then dropped down beside her. “So you still don’t know what’s in them?”

  Lily thought about pointing out that she hadn’t invited him to sit but decided against it. “Not yet, no. Except for the one I found under the bed yesterday. It was full of stuff from my aunt’s childhood—from my mother’s childhood, too, I guess. A beat-up old rag doll, a handful of notebooks, and a family photo I’ve never seen.”

  “Sounds like a lot of crap, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t,” Lily shot back tersely. “And even if it is crap, it’s my crap now, and my responsibility. Whatever it is, my aunt obviously had her reasons for holding on to it. Though I have to admit, this isn’t what I expected when I hopped in my car and headed south.”

  “I’ll bet. But I’m confused. She’s your aunt, right? Your mother’s sister? So how come you got nominated to pack up her stuff? How is this your deal, and not hers?”

  Lily’s gaze slid to the shoreline, where Dog was playing tag with the waves, the waterlogged stick still clamped between his teeth. How had this become her deal? The truth was she’d been asking herself that question since she arrived. Feud or no feud, why wasn’t Caroline here, helping sort through the remnants of her sister’s life?

  Beside her, Dean shifted on the blanket, a subtle reminder that he was still there and still waiting for an answer.

  “That’s an interesting question,” she said finally, and perhaps a little bitterly. “It’s my deal because my mother and Lily-Mae hadn’t spoken in over thirty years. I don’t know what happened between them. My mother refuses to talk about it. And she hates that my father left the cottage to me. We had a huge fight before I left. She didn’t want me to keep it, or to even come here.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I think that’s why I came, actually. Because she was so dead set against it. It made me want to know what the big deal was. I just had no idea what I was getting myself into.”

  “Would it have mattered if you had?”

  Lily thought about that, about the work that lay ahead of her, along with the very real possibility that at the end of three weeks she wouldn’t know anything more than she did right now. Finally, she shook her head. “No, I don’t think it would have. I would still have come. I’ve been fascinated with her all my life—my aunt, I mean—because that’s what you do when grown-ups tell you something’s off-limits. You obsess until you figure it out. Except I never have. So I guess that’s why I’m here. To figure it out.”

  “Can you do that in three weeks?”

  Lily shrugged. “I haven’t a choice. I report to Milan at the end of the month.”

  “You make it sound like a prison sentence.”

  “I just meant I won’t have a lot of free time between now and then.”

  “What about Paris? Won’t you miss it?”

  “No,” Lily said flatly. “Sometimes you just need to move on—and I did.”

  “Okay, I’m intrigued. Why?”

  Lily shrugged. “I was restless.”

  “Restless?”

  “I wasn’t thrilled with work, and there was this guy I was seeing—sort of. Things started to get messy.”

  “With the job, or the guy?”

  Lily looked away, wondering how she’d let the conversation become so personal. “The guy,” she answered finally. “But job-wise I was ready, too.” She paused, drawing a deep breath and holding it a moment before letting it go. “People hailed my father as a financial genius—the man with the Midas touch—and he was. What they don’t know is he only took on projects he could pour his heart into, things he felt really passionate about. I loved him for that. And here I am designing clothes no real woman will ever wear. I swear, sometimes I can’t even remember why I went into fashion.” She looked up, suddenly sheepish. “Do you ever feel that way? Like you can’t remember why you do what you do?”

  Dean shook his head. “I can’t say I do. I don’t need to love what I design. Only my clients do. Nothing against passion—believe me, it has its place—but for me that place has nothing to do with work. Work is a means to an end, a way to keep moving forward, to get to the next thing.”

  The next thing.

  He sounded so cool when he said it, so matter-of-fact. But what if you weren’t sure what the next thing was supposed to be? She was about to voice the thought when a low but ominous rumble interrupted. She shot a glance at the sky, noting the bank of dark clouds stacked up on the horizon. When had that happened?

  Dog was suddenly at Dean’s side, panting anxiously. Dean gave him a reassuring pat, then jerked a thumb at the sky. “Looks like we’re in for a doozy. They don’t always make it to shore, but this one’s coming fast. Best pack up.”

  Lily wasted no time in gathering her things, tossing them haphazardly into the beach bag. Another rumble sounded, accompanied by a sharp blast of wind. She grabbed for her hat just in time. “What in the world? It was sunny a few minutes ago.”

  Dean shot her a wry smile. “Welcome to Florida. I’m guessing it must be three o’clock, or pretty close to it. They don’t last long, but you can just about set your watch by them. You’ll get used to it.” He grabbed the other end of the blanket as she shook it out. “We’d better make a run for it. See there, just past the jetty? That’s rain, and it’s going to be here any minute. It won’t hurt you, but the lightning might.”

  Lily dragged off the straw hat and stuffed it into her bag, then followed Dean’s finger to the blurred horizon. He was right. They were about to get soaked—if they didn’t get electrocuted first. A fork of blue lightning split the sky, accompanied by a crack of thunder so sharp it shook the sand beneath their feet.

  “Your mail,” Dean hollered over the rising wind.

  Lily shoved the hair out of her eyes. “What?”

  “Your mail. That’s what I came over to tell you. I have some of your mail at my place, delivered by mistake. I came across it again this morning. Follow me over and I’ll give it to you.”

  Lily glanced at the sky, at the curtain of rain inching steadily closer. “Can’t it wait? You just said it’s going to come down any minute.”

  Dean shrugged, a gesture she was already beginning to recognize as habit. “Your call. Most of it’s probably junk mail, but it seemed like there might have been some personal stuff, too. I thought some of it might be important.”

  Lily thought about that, about who might have been sending Lily-Mae mail at the end of her life, and what kind of mail it might be. Bills, invitations, or a letter, perhaps? She had to admit the prospect was tempting. The journals spoke t
o Lily-Mae’s early years, but here was a chance, albeit slim, to steal a glimpse of the grown-up Lily-Mae. Hitching the beach bag up onto her shoulder, she turned to follow Dean.

  EIGHT

  Lily felt awkward as she ducked past Dean through the wide set of sparkling glass doors, keenly aware of her half-naked state despite the beach bag clutched tight to her front. How had she not thought to bring a T-shirt, at least? Goose bumps sprang up instantly along her arms. The place was colder than a meat locker.

  She lingered a moment on the sisal mat in front of the door, trying not to appear nosy as she brushed the sand from her feet and covertly took in her surroundings. It was clearly a man’s home, stark and no-nonsense, with soaring ceilings and lots of glass and leather. The walls were washed a soft blue-gray, trimmed in a clean, bright white, the perfect choice for a house by the sea, but something was off. The place felt stripped down; not a print or photograph to be seen. In fact, there wasn’t a knickknack in sight, nothing remotely personal, like a stage set without the props, everything wide open and pared down—impermanent.

  Dean was still out on the deck, giving Dog a quick toweling before letting him inside. When the job was finished he closed the doors, shutting out the thrum of wind and sea. Another crack of thunder sounded, this one so sharp it sent Dog scurrying down the hall. Dean watched him go, shaking his head.

  “Poor guy. Four-plus years, and I still haven’t been able to train it out of him. He’ll be under the bed for the next two hours.”

  “And you say this happens every day?”

  “Just about. Especially in the summer. But they usually blow right over.”

  Lily eyed the clouds with a prickle of foreboding. She was no expert, but she probably had about five minutes to get what she came for and scoot back to the cottage before the sky opened up. “You said something about mail?”