“Lily?” Dean’s voice drifted up softly from the beach. “What are you doing sitting up there in the dark?”
“I’m having dinner.”
A moment later he was standing at the top of the stairs, Dog panting happily at his side. “It’s a little late for dinner. Everything okay?”
“Sure.” She held up her wineglass. “Just taking a break.”
“That’s your dinner? Wine?”
“I’ve got crackers, too. I was too tired to fix anything.”
“Let me guess—you’ve been digging through boxes all day.”
“Some. But mostly, I’ve been reading. I came across more journals.”
“Anything interesting?”
Lily fished a cracker from the box, nibbling thoughtfully at one corner. “Intense is more the word I’d use. I can’t understand it. All these years I’ve been asking questions, and never once has any of the stuff I’m reading come up.”
Dean settled back against the railing, arms folded. “Sharing your emotional aches and pains isn’t always cathartic, Lily. Sometimes it’s just painful. Maybe she couldn’t talk about it.”
“Even to me?”
“Especially to you. Have you spoken to her yet?”
“Yes, for all the good it did me. She claims my aunt made it all up.”
“That’s a little odd, isn’t it? Do you think she did?”
Lily let her head fall back with a sigh, staring up at the stars without seeing them. “There’s nothing about my mother’s relationship with Lily-Mae that isn’t odd. And no, I don’t think she made it up. It’s too awful.”
“Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to, but if you need someone to listen . . .”
Lily hesitated, not sure she did want to talk about it. But maybe it would do her good to get it out. “When my mother and Lily-Mae were kids, their mother left them at a poor farm. She dropped them off and just drove away. Lily-Mae was fourteen and my mother couldn’t have been more than eleven. They were there almost three years.”
“Is a poor farm what I think it is?”
“Yes, it’s exactly what you think it is.”
“Jesus.”
“That isn’t the worst part. The man who ran it—Zell was his name—had a thing for young girls. He forced himself on Lily-Mae. Then, when she turned up pregnant, they forced her to have an abortion. When she finally came to they told her she’d probably never be able to have children.”
Dean swore softly in the darkness.
“When Zell set his sights on my mother, Lily-Mae decided it was time to go. She lied to get her to go along with her plan when the time came. She said there was a letter from their mother, and that they were going to live with her. Only there was no letter. Apparently, my mother has never forgiven her. I think that’s why she refuses to believe what’s in the journals.”
“That’s a long time to hold a grudge.”
“Yes, it is,” Lily said softly. “Lily-Mae risked everything to protect my mother, only to end up hated and dying all alone in this godforsaken cottage. I just don’t understand. They were family—all each other had.”
“Wow. This has really gotten to you.”
Lily drained the rest of her wine and set her glass on the railing. “It’s just so sad.”
Dean stepped away from the railing and dragged over a chair. “Maybe she wasn’t alone. There’s no way to know for sure.”
But she did know. They found her in bed . . . They say she was nothing but a rack of bones. She couldn’t tell Dean that, though, without telling him she had ignored his warning and spoken to Rhona. And she wasn’t up for that discussion.
Standing abruptly, Lily ducked inside, returning a moment later with a fresh glass and the bottle of chardonnay. “There was a letter,” she told Dean as she pressed the glass into his hand and began to fill it. “One Lily-Mae wrote but never sent. I think she must have known she was dying when she wrote it. It was . . . sad.” She refilled her own glass, then dropped back into her chair with a sigh. “There are two more journals. God knows what’s in them.”
Dean had been about to take a sip. He paused, peering over the rim of his glass. “Have you ever considered not reading them?”
“Not reading them?”
“Look, it’s none of my business, and as you might have guessed, families aren’t exactly my area of expertise, but it seems to me that dredging up all this family history is getting under your skin. It’s swallowing up time you could be using to have fun, but worse, it’s messing with your head. It isn’t too late to step away, you know, just toss all this stuff out and forget it. If we worked together we could get it all done in a day, and then you’d be able to enjoy the rest of your time here.”
“We’ve had this discussion, Dean. I can’t do that.”
“So you’re just going to keep sifting through it all, dredging up a dead woman’s past? And then what? You can’t change any of it.”
“I know.”
“Then why put yourself through it? My father did the same thing. After my mother left he spent years raking through old snapshots and birthday cards, and it didn’t change a thing. He wasted his life mourning someone who was never coming back.”
“This isn’t the same thing, and you know it. And your father wasn’t mourning because he thought it would bring your mother back. He was mourning because he didn’t know how to go on without her, because losing her left a hole in him he knew he could never fill.”
Dean stood and wandered back to the railing, his gaze fixed on the invisible horizon. “Well, you’re right about that last part. She hollowed him out but good.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged but didn’t turn. “No need.”
It was a habitual gesture, one she’d seem him make at least a dozen times, but something about this time was different. She rose and went to stand beside him. “Why do you do that?” she asked softly. “Why do you try to pretend your mother leaving was no big deal when it isn’t true?”
“Who says it isn’t?”
“I do. You were thirteen. Your life was turned upside down. It’s normal to be affected by something like that.”
He responded with another shrug.
“Look, I know a little something about this. Your dad checked out after your mother left. My mother never bothered to check in. I know how it feels to grow up with a parent who’s in your life but not really a part of it, one who wouldn’t dream of missing a bridge game at her club but can’t seem to remember the date of the school play. Or your birthday. So I get it. All of it. Why you don’t bat an eye when you talk about knocking down a house you built with your own hands, why there aren’t any pictures on your walls, why your dog doesn’t have a name. It’s easier to cut and run when you don’t let yourself get attached, so you make yourself a moving target. It makes you feel safe, because it feels like there’s nothing to lose.”
Dean cleared his throat but kept his eyes on the horizon. “Maybe you should take up psychiatry instead of fashion.”
The words were laced with amusement, but there was something else, too, something that told her she’d hit too close to home. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. It was just, well . . . kindred spirits and all.”
He did turn then, though his face was lost in shadow. “Kindred spirits?”
“You’re not the only one with commitment issues. With you, it happens to be houses and dogs. With me, it’s relationships and jobs. I’ve had four jobs in ten years, and I’m about to move on to number five.”
“Right, Milan.”
“Yeah, Milan—I guess.”
Dean dropped his arms to his sides, clearly relieved that the conversation had shifted to safer subjects. “I thought it was definite.”
“It is. But I’ve been thinking. Maybe I shouldn’t go. There’s so much to still do h
ere. Way more than I can ever finish by the end of the month.”
“I thought this was your dream job. You’d throw it away for a bunch of boxes?”
“I said it was a dream job; I never said it was mine. I’m not even sure I know what my dream job is. I always thought when I did find it I would know, that it would feel like coming home or something. Comfortable. Right. But so far, nothing has. I don’t want to make another mistake.”
He was quiet for a long moment, studying her face, or what he could make of it in the dark. When he finally spoke, the edge had returned to his voice. “A minute ago you said something about making yourself a moving target.”
“Yes.”
“In my experience, there’s a lot to be said for that philosophy. It keeps people from getting hurt—and I don’t just mean me. If you don’t get attached, you can’t lose anything. If you don’t make promises, you can’t break them. But you did promise to go to Milan, didn’t you?”
Lily tipped her head back, confused. “Is this about the cottage, about me leaving Hideaway so you can knock it down?”
“No, it’s not about the cottage.” He paused, huffing heavily. When he spoke again she could hear the smile laced through in his words. “Okay, maybe it’s a little bit about the cottage.” He reached for a stray strand of hair then, the one that had been tickling her cheek, and tucked it gently behind her left ear. Any other time the gesture would have felt quite intimate, but now it felt almost paternal, like something her father might have done when he knew she was upset about something. “All I’m saying is, don’t get too hung up on the idea of home. It doesn’t pay.”
Lily continued to peer up at him, wishing she could read his eyes—and his mind. “No complications?” she whispered.
“No complications.”
He kissed her then, like she knew he would, a slow and patient plundering that made her mind go blank and her knees go weak. She was vaguely aware of his hands in her hair, of her body melting into his, and then, of the voice in her head reminding her that she was on dangerous ground. There was no such thing as no complications.
TWENTY-TWO
Summer was clearly in full swing in sunny Hideaway Key, the sidewalks bustling with strolling couples and boisterous families, its streets lined with cars bearing out-of-state plates. Lily had to circle the block three times before finally finding a parking place, then had to walk two blocks back to Sassy Rack.
Galahad was the first to notice her as she stepped through the door, executing a sinuous figure eight around her ankles in way of greeting. Sheila shot her a quick smile and a wave before turning back to her customer at the shoe rack. The shop was surprisingly busy for midweek, but then so was the entire town.
“Can I help you find something?” Lily turned to find an almond-eyed brunette smiling at her over an armload of swimsuits.
“Oh, no, thanks. I just popped in to see Sheila, but I can see you’re busy. I’ll come back later.”
“Like fun you will.” Sheila was already making her way over. “What’s up, buttercup?”
“I came into town to scrounge for boxes, and thought maybe you could get away for lunch. I didn’t expect you to be so busy.”
“It’s summer, sugar. The whole town’s hopping.”
“I noticed. We can do it another day.”
“Don’t be silly. Even entrepreneurs have to eat. Just let me finish up, and we can head out. Penny and Jess can handle things for an hour.”
Lily browsed while Sheila wrapped things up with her customer. The shop might be small, but its bright merchandise and breezy sophistication made it a pleasure to explore; everything was carefully chosen, right down to the jewelry, hats, and sunglasses, and all displayed with Sheila’s special brand of panache.
A few minutes later Sheila was at her side, purse in hand. “Ready? There’s a yummy Cuban café around the corner if you’re in the mood. Best mojitos in town, but don’t you dare tell Salty I said so.”
Café Paradiso was abuzz with a healthy lunch crowd. Wedged between a bank and a dry cleaner, the place might have gone unnoticed if not for bright red umbrellas and festive music spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Sheila waved to one of the waitresses, then several other patrons as they wove their way to the last open table. She seemed to know everyone. A dusky-skinned girl named Vida delivered glasses of ice water and a basket of something called mariquitas: thinly sliced plantain chips drizzled in warm garlic sauce. On Sheila’s recommendation, Lily ordered an ice-cold mojito and a Cuban sandwich, with a side of black beans and rice.
“Well, this is nice,” Sheila said, picking up a plantain chip as Vida disappeared with their orders. “So much better than the ham sandwich I’d be scarfing down in the back room if you hadn’t shown up.”
“It’s a great little place, and I needed to get out. I was going a little stir-crazy.”
“Still wading through the mess?”
“Sadly, yes. I’ve made some progress, but there are still two rooms I haven’t even touched. Not counting Lily-Mae’s bedroom. I just can’t make myself go rooting around in there. It’s one thing to go through things I know she hasn’t touched in years, but raking through her bureau and nightstand . . . It feels invasive somehow. And God knows how I’m going to get it all done. I’m going to have to work day and night to finish.”
Sheila scowled at her across the table. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re thinking of backing out on your date with Dean.”
“It isn’t a date, but actually—”
“Don’t you dare. Not after I went to all the trouble of setting the two of you up. You look too good together to blow this.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the two of you fit. Think how pretty your children will be.”
Lily was about to sip her freshly delivered mojito, but set it back down again. “Children? It was a kiss. One kiss in the moonlight. Well, actually, there was no moon, so I guess you’d have to call it a kiss by starlight, but really, it didn’t mean . . .” Lily let her words trail as she realized what she had just walked into.
It was Sheila’s turn to set down her glass. “You kissed him?”
“He kissed me. At least I think he did.”
“Honey, if you have to think about it, one of you was doing it wrong.”
“Okay, then he kissed me. But it didn’t go anywhere.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I stopped it.”
Sheila sighed. “Of course you did.”
“It felt weird. Scary weird. One minute we were having this heavy conversation, and the next we were kissing.”
“Was it fun?”
Lily picked up her glass, eyeing Sheila over the rim. “Was it . . . fun?”
“Yeah. You know, sexy, hot . . . fun.”
“Yes, but that isn’t the point.”
Sheila’s lips curved wickedly. “Honey, that’s exactly the point.”
“It’s a bad idea, Sheila.”
“Not from where I’m sitting, it isn’t. The man is gorgeous. He builds houses with his bare hands, cooks, and, judging by the color of your cheeks right now, kisses like a Greek god. Seriously, as your self-appointed romance guru, I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”
“I’m not waiting for anything. It just doesn’t make sense. I’ll be in Milan in a couple of weeks, and he’ll be a continent away.”
“Maybe not.”
Lily smiled, amused by Sheila’s determination. “We’ve known each other less than two weeks. You think he’s going to Milan?”
“I’m saying I don’t think you are. I don’t think you even want to. And why should you? There’s nothing there for you.”
“There’s a job, Sheila. One I’ve already accepted.”
“So unaccept it.”
“Why would I do that?”
Lily bit her lip, reluctant to say it out loud. “No,” she said finally. “I’m not.”
“Well, then, there’s your answer.”
Lily glanced down at her lap, toying with her napkin. “I was watching you earlier, back at the shop. You love it, don’t you?”
Sheila smiled, a soft, almost fond smile. “It saved my life. I told you what it was like after I was diagnosed. I gave up, and I ran away to Hideaway. I chose it because of the name—I wanted so badly to hide back then—but then I fell in love with the place, with the sun and the sea and the quiet. And little by little I started to heal. I stopped running away from it, stopped mourning what the doctors had taken from me, stopped believing I wasn’t enough because I didn’t look like the women in the magazines, and just decided to love this new me, scars and all. And then the most amazing thing happened. I met other women who were going through the same thing. We were all miserable and sick, fighting like hell to get through the next treatment. We were soldiers on a crusade, but we’d forgotten we were women. That’s why I got into clothes. I wanted to remind my friends—and me, too, I guess—that we were still beautiful. Sassy Rack sprang from all of that.”
“It’s an incredibly brave story.”
Sheila shrugged. “We’ve all got one. They come in different shapes and sizes, but at some point we’re all called on to stand up and fight something that scares the hell out of us.”
Lily couldn’t help thinking about Lily-Mae, about all the things that must have scared the hell out her, and how she’d faced them without flinching. Compared to Sheila and Lily-Mae, her problems were small. In fact, she couldn’t even think of anything that scared the hell out of her.
Vida returned to drop off their meals and top up their waters. Lily bit into her sandwich, moaning her approval. “This is delicious.”
“I know. I love this place, but I never think to come here by myself. So, what about you? What made you fall in love with clothes?”
Summer at Hideaway Key Page 18