Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  Lily arched a brow. “And now that you know it was real?”

  A fresh tear tracked down Caroline’s cheek. “My heart is broken all over again. Is that what you wanted to hear? I thought if I separated them, made them hate each other, that it would finally be my turn. I didn’t understand that nothing—not miles, not anger, not even betrayal—could ever really separate them.”

  “But they were separated. You did accomplish that.”

  Caroline’s lower lip trembled, her voice quivering with barely suppressed tears. “I thought so, too, but I was wrong. It was all for nothing. The hurt, the damage—all for nothing.”

  FORTY-ONE

  1995

  Hideaway Key, Florida

  It was a relief to have Caroline gone. Lily hadn’t waved good-bye, though she had gone to the door to watch the rented Buick back out of the driveway and disappear down Vista Drive. Caroline had made one last stand, a final plea for forgiveness as she walked to the door with her overnight bag. Lily’s answer hadn’t changed. Perhaps forgiveness would come in time, though at the moment it was hard to see how such a thing was possible. It was a strange reality to be faced with, to go from having not one mother but two—one who raised her, and one she’d never known—to realizing, with a rather nasty jolt, that in truth she had no mother at all.

  The thought churned up fresh waves of anger in her gut, a nebulous sense of loss, fury at having been lied to, resentment at being cheated of the mother she should have had. Perhaps it was only a girlish fancy, the cotton-candy notion that with Lily-Mae she might have had the childhood she’d always craved, the kind of bond that existed only between mothers and daughters, a friend and confessor, a keeper of secrets. Instead, she had Caroline—distant, resentful Caroline, who after thirty-five years was still as much a stranger to her as Lily-Mae.

  But even as the thought came Lily knew it wasn’t true. Lily-Mae wasn’t a stranger. Not anymore. She had Roland to thank for that. All her life he’d been teaching her lessons, schooling her in the ways of the world and urging her to find her place in it, counseling her to listen to her heart and then follow it. Had he known, somehow, that her place was here? Perhaps not. Perhaps he’d only hoped. But she liked the idea, just the same.

  Restless with the weight of these new thoughts, Lily wandered into Lily-Mae’s bedroom, hers now, though she still had trouble thinking of it that way. She’d been at the cottage nearly six weeks now, and aside from the letter found between the pages of Wuthering Heights, and the journal discovered on the bookshelf, she had barely touched a thing. It had seemed wrong somehow to disturb any of it, like ransacking the tomb of an ancient king or queen, defiling things made sacred by death. Now, suddenly, in the light of Caroline’s revelations, everything had changed. The room, and everything in it, belonged to her mother—a legacy of sorts, sacred still, but no longer off-limits.

  This time there was no pang of guilt when she opened the closet, no queasy sense of voyeurism as she ran her gaze over the mother lode of vintage suits and dresses, remnants of a bygone era when ladies wore hats and carried hankies. She couldn’t resist touching them, fingering a silk sleeve, a beaded neckline, wondering where they might have been worn, and why Lily-Mae had chosen to hold on to them. Sentiment perhaps, memories that clung to clothes the way good perfume did, lingering long after the wearer cast them aside. Eyes closed, she inhaled deeply. It was still there, or at least the illusion was, as it had been the first time: the faintly mingled scents of lavender and lily of the valley. Like a memory, but not, because that was impossible.

  When she’d had her fill of the closet’s treasures she moved on to the trunk at the foot of the bed. Like the closet and bureau, she had given the contents a quick peer when she first arrived, but she had ventured no further. She’d been on a different mission then, and to tell the truth, just a bit squeamish about rooting around in a dead woman’s things. Now she had no such qualms.

  Folding herself down onto her knees, Lily raised the lid and stared at the nest of tissue-wrapped parcels, so neatly arranged that she almost hated to disturb them. In the end, curiosity won out. Her belly fluttered as she lay the first package in her lap and gingerly folded back the layers of crinkly paper.

  It was a nightgown, creamy lace, delicate as a web, with a chain of tiny satin rosebuds sewn along the neckline and straps. It weighed almost nothing in her hands, so sheer she could see the outline of her fingers through the fabric. Squinting, she made out the label—La Maison Blanche, Paris, France.

  We’ll always have Paris.

  She’d nearly forgotten the postcard but thought of it now—mailed just weeks before Lily-Mae’s death—with a pang of grief even she hadn’t expected. That her father might have sent it had crossed her mind, but now there could be no doubt that he’d been the one to pen that brief but poignant line, a bittersweet reminder of their honeymoon. Only Lily-Mae had never received it. She had died never knowing that Roland was half a world away, still thinking of her.

  Delving back into the trunk with renewed reverence, she brought out what she was now certain had been Lily-Mae’s trousseau. Each article had been carefully preserved in the same silver paper: lacy peignoirs and silk camisoles, satiny slips and whisper-sheer stockings, all of the highest quality and all seemingly never worn. And yet she’d kept them, stashed away like bits of treasure, artifacts from a time and place that no longer existed.

  She felt a prickle of anticipation as she reached for the last parcel—larger than the rest, and tied with a strand of pale blue ribbon. Her breath caught as she peeled back the paper folds and saw the sheath of creamy silk. There was a hat, too, a slightly rumpled pillbox with a finely beaded veil, along with the mummified remains of a small posy of flowers.

  Lily held her breath as she set the flowers aside and picked up the hat, plucking it back into some semblance of shape. On impulse, she placed the pillbox on her head, adjusting the angle and then smoothing down the veil before stealing a look in the dressing table mirror. A shiver passed down her spine as she stared at her reflection, the kind that comes with recognizing a perfect stranger, a face you’ve never seen before but somehow know as well as your own.

  She was aware, as she shed her shorts and T-shirt, that what she was about to do might be considered morbid, even gruesome. She didn’t care. Before she could change her mind she was slipping the silk sheath over her head, letting it slide down her body with a sigh. The fit was surprisingly good, a bit roomy in the hips, perhaps, but otherwise the dress seemed to have been made for her. She was hesitant at first, to look at herself in the mirror, then found that she couldn’t look away, startled to see herself as Lily-Mae must have looked the day she married Roland.

  It was a queer feeling, as if she had stepped into another time—and another life.

  And then, before she knew to brace herself, the strain of the last few days was crowding in, all the emotions she had been carefully holding at bay suddenly spilling free, a hot rush of tears blurring her vision and scorching up into her throat, shuddering through her until there was nothing to do but bury her face in her hands and give way to them.

  “What in God’s name—?”

  Lily snapped her head around, startled to find Dean in the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

  His gaze wandered pointedly over the floor, taking in puddles of lingerie and rumpled sheets of tissue. “I think I’m the one who should be asking that question. What is all this, and why are you crying? What’s happened?”

  Lily wiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands, but the tears kept coming, welling again and again, no matter how many times she blinked them away. “Nothing. No, that’s not true. My mother—no, not my mother—Caroline showed up.”

  “Your mother showed up . . . here?”

  “She isn’t . . .” Lily paused, pulling in a ragged breath. “My God, I can’t believe I’m saying it out loud. She isn’t my mother. She was ne
ver my mother.”

  Dean stared at her, clearly baffled. “She was . . . I’m sorry . . . what?”

  Lily took another swipe at her eyes, frustrated that she couldn’t seem to get her emotions under control. “She was going through my father’s desk after he died, and she found some of Lily-Mae’s journals. Lily-Mae must have sent them when they told her . . . when she learned she was dying. Anyway, Caroline decided to bring them to me.”

  Dean shook his head, as if what she was telling him refused to translate. “I don’t understand. How is Caroline not your mother? And why would she show up now, when she couldn’t be bothered to answer any of your calls?”

  Lily dragged in a breath, then let it out slowly. “She said she wanted to be here when I found out.”

  “Found out what?”

  “That Lily-Mae was my mother.”

  “Jesus . . .”

  Lily pressed on, afraid the tears might start again. “She and Roland were already split when she realized she was pregnant. Caroline talked her into giving up the baby, then talked my father into marrying her so they could adopt me.”

  “And Lily-Mae agreed to that?”

  Lily shook her head. “She didn’t find out until years later, when it was too late. She saw my father and me at the park one day and got suspicious. Apparently, Caroline was only too happy to confirm what Lily-Mae already knew, that her own sister had schemed to steal her husband and her child.”

  “Jesus. Where is she now, your—I mean, Caroline—sorry.”

  Lily waved away his apology. “Don’t be. I don’t know what to call her, either. She’s back in New York. Or will be as soon as her plane lands.”

  “How did the two of you leave it?”

  “I told her I didn’t want to see her for a while. Or maybe ever. I don’t know if I can forgive the things she did, the lies she told, and the lives she ruined. Everything her sister ever loved or wanted, she took, because she was jealous—and because she claims to have loved my father.”

  “You don’t believe her?”

  Lily shook her head helplessly, not sure what she believed anymore. “I don’t know. It doesn’t exactly feel the way love should, does it? Scheming to get what you want. Not caring who you trample on to do it.”

  Dean’s face hardened. “Are we still talking about Lily-Mae? I can’t tell.”

  Lily stared at him, her face blank until she realized with a vicious jolt that he must be referring to his plans to get his hands on the cottage. It seemed impossible that she could have forgotten something so egregious, but the truth was she absolutely had. Over the past few days, she’d given little thought to anything but the tangle of lives Caroline St. Claire had knowingly left in her wake. Now, though, the reality of it came crashing down, the weight of it heavy on her chest.

  “If you’re asking, was that a reference to your plans to sell my cottage, then no, it wasn’t. Though, it should have been. Lucky for you, my mind has been”—she paused, waving a hand around the cluttered bedroom—“on other things.”

  Dean eyed the mess again, as if he were surveying the remnants of a small explosion. “What is all this, by the way?”

  “Lily-Mae’s trousseau,” she told him coolly, unable to tell if he really cared or was just trying to change the subject. “At least I think it is. Things Roland bought for her while they were on their honeymoon.”

  “But that was decades ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s still here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Lily narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you think? She kept it because it meant something to her. Every minute she spent with my father meant something. And this was how she held on.”

  “Held on?” Dean repeated, his voice almost chillingly quiet. “My father tried to hold on. All he did was make himself miserable. Is that what you’re trying to do, make yourself miserable?”

  “I was just going through her things.”

  “Really? Because to me, what it looks like you’re doing is wallowing. Believe me, Lily, I know it when I see it, and this is exactly how it starts. You rake through the memorabilia, then you rake through it some more, and then before you know it, it starts to consume you.”

  “She was my mother.”

  “You never knew her.”

  “Which is exactly why I need to do this. I want to know her, how she lived, how she survived so much unhappiness and kept on going. She died here—alone. At the end of her life, she had no one. No lover, no sister, no daughter. No one.”

  “And how does this little pity party of yours change any of that? The woman is dead, Lily. And nothing is ever going to change that. But you keep dredging it all back up so you can wallow some more.”

  “That isn’t what I’m doing.”

  “Lily, you were crying your eyes out when I walked in, sitting on the floor in a dead woman’s wedding dress like some modern-day Miss Havisham—over a woman you’ve never laid eyes on. That’s what happens when you keep digging through the past. You find out things you don’t want to know, things you can’t ever unknow. I told you when you first came that you should knock this place down, or at least haul all those damn boxes away, but you wouldn’t listen. Now look at you.”

  Lily stole a sidelong glance at the mirror. He was right. She did look ridiculous—a thirty-five-year-old woman dressed up for trick-or-treat—but that was her business. So was Lily-Mae, and Sand Pearl Cottage. Dragging the pillbox from her head, she laid it on the bed, then turned a sickly sweet smile in Dean’s direction. “And here we are again, back to knocking down the cottage—your solution for everything. Forgive me if I’m just a little skeptical about your motives.”

  “You think that’s what I’ve been doing with you all summer, trying to romance this place out from under you?”

  “Spare me your righteous indignation, although I must say, you do a fair impression. It would be a lot more convincing, though, if you hadn’t announced your intentions to do just that the first day we met. I believe I even called you on it. Guess the joke’s on me.”

  Dean crossed his arms, chin jutting, nostrils flared. “Nothing between us has ever been about this cottage, Lily. Not in the beginning, and not now. But you keep the damn thing. Turn it into a shrine, for all I care. It’s not the only piece of beachfront on the Gulf Coast. But just so you know, I said what I did about flattening the place because I think it would be the wisest thing for you. Just bulldoze it down and move on.”

  It was Lily’s turn to cross her arms. “Is it really that easy for you? There’s something you don’t want to deal with—something you don’t want to feel—so you just toss it aside and move on?”

  “It’s worked so far.”

  The words stung more than she expected. “Has it?”

  “Mostly. Yes. And if you’re honest with yourself you’ll admit that I’m right. Tell me you weren’t happier before all this started, that it wasn’t easier when you could just pick up and move on without looking back.”

  Lily scooped a nightgown off the floor, plucking at its satiny folds as she contemplated the question, fairly certain he hadn’t been talking about Lily-Mae. “It was easier,” she answered finally. “A lot easier, in fact. But I can’t turn my emotions on and off like a light switch, or toss the past out onto the curb like it never happened. Feelings aren’t always convenient, Dean. In fact, they almost never are. All you can do is live with them until you don’t feel them anymore. I don’t expect you to understand that, though. You haven’t let yourself feel anything for thirty years.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “No? You can’t even muster enough sentiment to name your dog.”

  Dean’s face clouded. “What the hell does Dog have to do with this?”

  “Everything. You just can’t see it. You think staying detached will keep you safe, that emp
ty walls and a dog with no name mean you can’t get hurt the way your father did. But that isn’t how it works. People get hurt. Everybody gets hurt.”

  “Look, I don’t know why we’re talking about my walls, but sometimes there are things we’re better off not knowing—or feeling. I thought we agreed on that at the start of this thing. It’s called self-preservation.”

  Lily nodded slowly, vaguely numbed by his use of the word thing. He was right, though. They had agreed—once. There were things you were better off not feeling, but once you did feel them, you couldn’t go back. “I guess I don’t believe that anymore,” she said finally. “You do, though, and always will. You act like your father going to pieces over your mother was wrong, like his life, and yours, would have been better somehow if he had just pretended not to care, like you did—like you’re still doing.”

  Dean stiffened. “Please leave my parents out of this.”

  “I’m not the one who brought them up. And you do it all the time; anytime we talk about anything remotely serious, up comes your mother and what she did to your dad. You carry it around with you like a piece of shrapnel. And yet you stand there telling me I should forget about Lily-Mae.”

  Dean met her gaze, steely-eyed and rigid. “I don’t need psychoanalyzing, Lily. I’m not the one sitting on the floor in a wedding dress.”

  Lily blinked at him, stunned by the ice-cold edge that had crept into his voice. “Can I ask you something? That tough-guy thing you do—like you just did there—is that for show, or do you really believe that nothing can touch you? Not love or guilt or sadness?”

  Dean turned away, feigning interest in the jar of shells up on the bureau. He lifted one out, peering at it so long that Lily started to wonder if he’d forgotten she was there. “You’re right,” he said with a chilling frankness, when he finally dropped the shell and turned back. “It is for show, or used to be. An act I put on to save my skin, but it hasn’t been an act for a long time. It’s who I am now, an actor who’s played a part so long he’s forgotten it isn’t real. That other me—the one who used to feel all those things—doesn’t exist anymore. In fact, he’s buried so deep I don’t think I could find him if I wanted to.”