Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  But even more curious was the huge gap of years between the last batch of journals and the one she’d just finished. It seemed unlikely that a lifelong journaler would simply stop recording the events of her life, then resume again more than thirty years later. Nor did the latest entries read as though she had just resumed her writing. If that was the case, if Lily-Mae hadn’t actually stopped, where were the rest of the journals? And what had happened during those in-between years?

  At least she finally had an explanation for all the boxes. Lily-Mae had had her things brought out of storage and delivered to the cottage, and she’d done so with a specific purpose in mind: to look for something and then send it to Roland.

  A deathbed confession? One last chance for absolution? It was possible. In fact, the more Lily thought about it, the more convinced she was that she was right, and that the unsent letter had, in fact, been meant for her father.

  This time, when she dialed her mother’s number she was ready with a different set of questions. Not that it mattered. As usual there was no answer, just the familiar sound of her mother’s voice on the machine.

  You’ve reached the St. Claire residence . . .

  “Mother, this is getting ridiculous. Please pick up the phone and talk to me. I need to know about Daddy and Lily-Mae, about why they divorced, and if Daddy received a package from Lily-Mae before she died.” She waited, listening to empty air. “Mother, I mean it. I’m not going to stop calling. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to talk about this.”

  Lily waited again, but to no avail. Finally, she banged down the phone, frustration threatening to boil over. The woman couldn’t just go on ignoring her forever. Or maybe she could. Why? was the question. Refusing to talk about her sister was certainly nothing new, but dodging phone calls from her own daughter was starting to feel a bit manic.

  Was it possible her father’s death had taken more of an emotional toll than she believed? It was hard to imagine, until she remembered that her mother had lost not only a husband but a sister as well. Two losses in as many years. It would certainly explain the marked increase in her mother’s gin consumption. Not even the stoic Caroline St. Claire could absorb two such losses and remain unscathed.

  The thought brought an unexpected pang of remorse. She’d been so absorbed in the mystery, so hell-bent on getting answers, that she’d never stopped to think her tenacity might go beyond mere annoyance for her mother. After thirty-five years she was used to her mother’s theatrics, especially when it came to Lily-Mae, but this felt different, more dire, almost ominous.

  Suddenly, she saw her mother’s avoidance in a new light, not as a prolonged act of passive aggression but as a desperate attempt to keep painful doors securely bolted. And with each new phone call and demand for information, Lily had been rattling the keys in those rusty old locks, threatening to throw the doors wide.

  All this time she had assumed there was something in Lily-Mae’s past her mother didn’t want exposed. Now she had to ask herself if Caroline’s bizarre overreaction to her father leaving her the cottage might not be about her own past, and the fear that some unflattering bit of evidence might come to light—like the fact that she swooped in to marry her sister’s husband before the ink on the divorce papers was even dry.

  Or maybe it was the fact that despite strenuous efforts to blot her sister out of existence, Lily-Mae had remained a part of Roland’s life, if only from a distance—that he had loved her first, last, and always. Caroline had never been keen on playing second fiddle. It must have been doubly hard coming in second to her own sister. Better to hide the facts, perhaps even rewrite history, than have the truth known. It must be rather inconvenient to learn that Lily-Mae had poured her heart out in a series of journals, and then left them to be found when she was dead.

  She thought briefly about picking up the phone again and confronting her mother with this new theory, but in the end, she decided to leave it alone. If her mother didn’t call back this time, which she almost certainly wouldn’t, Lily would have to accept the fact that she simply wasn’t going to.

  THIRTY-THREE

  1995

  Hideaway Key, Florida

  Lily tipped her head back and closed one eye, watching the bright yellow kite lift away and then dive, tail fluttering gaily against a low leaden sky. She couldn’t help smiling as she watched Dean down by the shore. She thought he was kidding when he’d invited her to go kite flying after breakfast, but there he stood, looking all boyish and windblown, grinning happily as he wrestled the wind for control of his Hi-Flier.

  The day had dawned gray and sullen, with a sharp wind swirling in off the water, the fringes of a tropical storm that was currently lashing the Texas coast. Perfect kite weather, or so Dean said. She wouldn’t know. She’d never flown a kite in her life, or seen one flown, for that matter. One thing was certain: he was having fun, and so was Dog, romping in and out of the softly breaking waves.

  She was glad now that she’d let him convince her to take the day off. She’d been in a bit of a funk since reading the last journal, unable to shake the thought of such a sad and lonely end. She had tried immersing herself in work, spending long hours at Dean’s spare drafting table, playing with new ideas, fine-tuning old ones, but it hadn’t worked.

  Lily-Mae was always with her, her losses and her sorrows, and that last terrible blank page. Her aunt had loved one man all her life, and had clearly never stopped loving him, even after he turned around and married her sister. How had she managed to endure so much and yet love so deeply? The question still baffled Lily.

  The more she knew, the more obvious it became that happily ever after was just a clever marketing scheme devised by people who sold diamond rings and honeymoon packages. Lily-Mae had believed it, though, and for a time she and Roland had lived happily. It was the ever after part that eluded them.

  Without meaning to, Lily’s eyes found Dean at the water’s edge. They were starting to get comfortable, or at least she was, falling into the kinds of routines couples shared. Who slept on which side, who stacked the dishwasher, whose turn it was to do the shopping, the kinds of things that had always roused a vague sense of panic when she was with Luc—and were usually followed by a hasty retreat.

  Only this time she didn’t want to retreat. How was that possible? She’d been clear from the outset. They both had. No strings. No complications. But somewhere along the way something had changed, something she couldn’t or wouldn’t name, and it was starting to scare the hell out of her.

  Dean’s eyes found hers, as if feeling the weight of her gaze. She glanced away quickly, afraid her face might give her away, and caught Dog’s eye instead. He turned and trotted in her direction, tracking clots of damp sand onto her blanket. He had grown rather attached to her over the last few weeks, and she to him. So fond, in fact, that she had mentally renamed him Chester. She hadn’t told Dean yet. It was one thing to clutter a man’s bathroom with scrunchies and shower gel. It was quite another to rename his dog.

  Restless, she stood and wandered to the water’s edge. The day had grown warm in spite of the cloud cover, the air thick with a haze of salt and blowing sand. Her breath caught as she waded into the waves, briefly shocked by the chilliness as they closed around her ankles, then slid up her calves. She stood there a moment, hair streaming in the breeze, struck once again by the stark beauty of the sea and sky, by nature’s palette of blues and grays and greens.

  She wasn’t aware that Dean had approached until she felt his arms close about her waist. Instinctively, she relaxed against his chest, letting her breath sync with his, content to remain quiet in the circle of his arms. She tipped her head back and smiled, sighing when his lips pressed warmly against her shoulder, then began to trail along the curve of her neck. She couldn’t say for certain whose doing it was, but a moment later she found herself facing him, mouth opening hungrily to his.

  “This is a whole
lot more fun than kite flying,” he murmured throatily.

  Lily drew back just a little, offering a languid smile. “I’m glad you think so. Care to take a swim?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether or not you plan to wear this.” Without warning, he reached for the knots at both her back and nape and gave them a swift, simultaneous tug.

  Lily was too shocked to even protest as the top of her bathing suit slithered free.

  “It’s a private beach, remember?” he said grinning wickedly. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll let you keep the bottoms . . . for now.”

  He grabbed her hand then, tugging her with him into the water. Lily gasped as the cool waves broke against her flesh, but she quickly warmed when he drew her close, twining her legs around his waist. She offered no resistance as his lips found hers, her arms tight about his neck, fingers lost in the damp waves of his hair. It was a heady combination, warm salty kisses set against the primal rhythm of the sea, slippery limbs and eager hands, like serpents moving quietly beneath the waves. This time when Lily shivered it had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

  It wasn’t until the first cold patter of rain began to fall that the spell was finally broken. Lily turned her face to the sky, laughing giddily. Dean grabbed her hand and dragged her toward shore, scooping her bathing suit top off the wet sand as they made a mad dash for the house.

  The sky opened in earnest as they made it inside, hurling sheets of noisy gray rain against the windows. Lily barely noticed as they tumbled into the shower and then into bed, picking things up precisely where they’d left off on the beach, in a heated frenzy of warm breath and wet limbs, heedless of the afternoon storm raging outside.

  The rain had stopped by the time they finally collapsed in a sated tangle. They slept for a time, then ate dinner in bed—leftover pasta and salad, washed down with a good red wine. The storm had moved out, leaving the horizon washed in pearly hues of pink and gold, the air damp but cool as it wafted in through the open doors.

  Beside her, Dean was propped against a bank of pillows, using his sheet-draped lap as a desk, a legal pad on his knees, a pencil tucked behind one ear, and a calculator in hand as he tweaked the final proposal numbers for the Newmans’ new beach house. Lily pretended to work, too, toying with ideas for an elaborate silk sarong that had been floating around in her head for days. But her mind refused to cooperate, her attention straying beyond the bedroom window, where the sun was beginning to slip toward the sea. Another day nearly gone.

  Had Lily-Mae felt like this as she lay beside Roland all those years ago? Had she longed to halt the sun in its tracks, to stretch each day and make it last? In her journals she had spoken of time winding down, of knowing each day that her time with Roland was ticking away—that every day they had less.

  The words had touched her deeply when she read them, but now, in the afterglow of a day well spent, they struck her even more keenly, because somewhere along the way they had become her feelings, too. Summer was half gone. In a few weeks she would leave Hideaway Key, long before she ever filled her own jar of shells. She was beginning to understand why Lily-Mae had kept the jar, a tangible reminder of happy days that had sped by far too quickly.

  Had it been worth it? A lifetime of heartache in exchange for a few weeks or months of bliss? Or had she come to regret the choices that left her heartbroken and alone? Sheila’s words suddenly drifted into her head, unbidden. You know when you realize you’re absolutely terrified. When you’re convinced you’re going to smash yourself to pieces, and you’re still willing to leap.

  “Where are you?”

  Lily started and pulled her eyes back to Dean’s. “I was thinking about Lily-Mae.”

  “Of course you were.”

  Lily ignored the gibe. “I was wondering if she would have married my father if she knew how things would turn out, if she would have let herself love him the way she did, knowing it wouldn’t last.”

  “And what did you decide?”

  “I think she would have. I don’t think it’s the kind of thing you have a say over. You don’t decide to love someone, you just do. She loved my father, and that was that.”

  Dean frowned. “That’s a bit fatalistic, don’t you think? Especially for someone who doesn’t believe in all that nonsense. Besides, to hear you tell it, she left him. Your father was the one who got burned, not your aunt.”

  Lily shrugged. “Yes, she did, but she must have had her reasons. I don’t know what they were. I’ll probably never know. But if you had read the last journal you’d understand. She never stopped loving him.”

  “So, love is sacrifice? Not exactly a ringing endorsement, if you ask me.”

  His sarcasm was hardly new, but for some reason it irked more than usual tonight, perhaps because it came at the end of such a perfect day. “Sheila says you know it’s love when you’re terrified of losing everything, and you’re still willing to take the leap, because going over a cliff together beats playing it safe alone.”

  Dean shook his head, a combination of annoyance and amusement. “Well, now, there’s a testimonial if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “I think it’s romantic.”

  There was an awkward moment of silence as Dean’s pencil hovered above his legal pad. Finally, he poked the pencil back behind his ear and folded his hands over his abdomen. “I thought you were the no-complications girl. Now, suddenly, you’re all moony about lovers holding hands and jumping off cliffs?”

  “It’s just a figure of speech,” Lily shot back drily. “It’s about staring heartbreak in the face and not blinking, about being committed no matter the cost. My father told Lily-Mae once that she was the bravest woman he’d ever met. Maybe he was more right than even he knew. She was living a fairy tale, the kind every girl dreams of when she’s growing up—a man who adored her, clothes, money, travel—and she just walked away. You can’t tell me she didn’t have a damn good reason. I just wish I knew what it was.”

  “Maybe she met a mechanic.”

  Lily stared at him, not sure if she should feel guilty about blundering onto a prickly topic, or annoyed that he could be so cavalier when he knew how she felt. In the end, she decided to go with guilt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly, laying a hand on his arm. “I didn’t mean to drag up old memories.”

  Dean pulled back from her touch, his eyes already back on his legal pad. “Forget it. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion.”

  Lily blinked at him, surprised by his frosty tone. Did he think she’d been trying to draw him into a conversation about their relationship, or nudge him toward some sort of declaration? The thought made her queasy. She thought of Luc, of the offhand remarks that had frequently found their way into conversations, how she would do her best to sidestep them, and then, when that didn’t work, how she would seize on the first thing she could find to start an argument. Is that what this was? Some kind of karmic role reversal?

  “I really am sorry,” she said again. “I know you don’t understand why I care about all this. I’m not even sure I understand it myself. But if it bothers you, we don’t—”

  “I’m going to Chicago for a few days,” he said gruffly, cutting her off midsentence. “I leave the day after tomorrow.”

  Lily stared at him, trying to wrap her head around the startlingly blunt announcement.

  “Chicago?”

  “To meet with the Newmans,” he explained, erasing something he’d just written. “It’s a big job. A pretty lucrative one, too, if things work out the way I’m hoping with the home and land package I’ve worked up. I just need one more face-to-face to finalize the details. It shouldn’t take long, a week at most.” He glanced up then, a crease between his brows. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m just surprised, is all. You didn’t say anything.”

 
“Didn’t I?”

  “No, you didn’t.” She cringed at the sound of her own voice, teetering on the edge of petulance, but couldn’t seem to help herself. “It’s not a big deal. I’m just surprised you didn’t remember to tell me when you booked your flight.”

  Dean flashed her a distracted look. “Sorry. I guess I’m telling you now. The timing works pretty well, actually. You’ll be in Tampa with Sheila the day I leave. This way you won’t need to hurry back. You could stay overnight, enjoy a girls’ night out in Ybor City. I thought a little downtime might be a good thing.”

  Downtime. As in taking a break. As in needing some space.

  Lily looked away. She’d used the word often enough to know what it meant.

  “Sure. Why not.”

  If Dean noticed the sudden change in her mood he hid it well, engrossed once more in his numbers and notes. Lily did her best to return to her sarong, but was too distracted to concentrate. Was she imagining it—the feeling that the ground had suddenly shifted beneath her feet? She wanted to think so, but the warning signs were too glaring to ignore. She’d been using the same technique for years—lashing out, then clamming up, retreating behind the safety of work.

  And what if she was right, and this impromptu business trip was exactly what it looked like—a way of putting some distance between them? She had no claim on his time, or his comings and goings. They had agreed; no strings, no complications, each free to go their own way when the shine began to wear off. And yet, the thought of him availing himself of the escape clause in their relationship filled her with dread.

  “Are you going to work much longer?” she asked tentatively. “I thought we could watch a movie or something.”

  “You go ahead,” Dean mumbled around the pencil clamped between his teeth. “I’ve got more numbers to crunch.”

  Lily waited, hoping he would look up. He didn’t. It was as if she had suddenly become invisible, a houseguest who had overstayed her welcome. Had there been some sign she missed, some signal she should have picked up on? A few hours ago she had been in his arms. But there was a difference between making love and being in love. God knows she’d always been careful enough not to confuse the two. Until now.