Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  “And you don’t want to,” Lily said softly.

  The words hung heavily, filling up the silence. Finally, Dean’s eyes slid away, the only answer he needed to give.

  Lily felt the knot in her throat tighten, but swallowed past it. “What did you want?”

  “What?”

  “You came over for a reason. What did you want?”

  “Just to tell you I was back. So we could . . . talk.”

  “Talk?” Lily stared at him, wondering what either one of them could say that hadn’t been said already. “I think we just did.”

  “Yeah,” Dean said flatly. “I guess we did.”

  Lily said nothing as she watched him go. She always knew there would be this moment between them—the end of things. She just thought it would be tidier when it came, no emotions left dangling, no hurt feelings or bruised egos. At least that had been the plan.

  FORTY-TWO

  1995

  Hideaway Key, Florida

  The beach was a sleepy stretch of muted blues and whites as Lily stepped out onto the cool morning sand. She had come awake with a jolt, stiff and bleary-eyed after a very long and very restless night. She still couldn’t say what had awakened her. There had been no wisps of unresolved dreams floating around in her head, no startled echoes of sound or movement, just the abrupt awareness that she was wide-awake and finished with sleep.

  The moon was still up as Lily set off down the beach, fat and milky against an opalescent blue-white sky. The sea, too, was quiet at this early hour, shiny-smooth, and nearly silent as it purled lazily around her ankles. It was too late, but she bent down to give her cuffs another turn anyway. As she straightened, her eyes slid reflexively toward Dean’s house. The lights in his office were already on, and for a moment she imagined him sitting at his drafting table, sipping from the cold cup of coffee at his elbow, groping about on his desk for the pencil he had absently stuck behind his ear.

  Averting both her eyes and her thoughts, she pushed on, turning her attention to the early-morning quiet and brine-scented breeze, the silver-white flash of gull wings out over the water, the sticky-wet give of sand between her toes, carefully etching each sound, and sight, and sensation into her memory.

  This was good-bye.

  It was what had awakened her, she realized with sudden clarity—the knowing. The eerie, almost jarring stillness that rushed in after decisions were made, when all the humming and whirring finally stopped, and there was just you and the thing you had chosen. A week ago, she had imagined Hideaway as a tiny slice of paradise: sunny, warm, and filled with promise. Now it seemed only a place of sadness, of betrayals and rifts, of inevitable endings—of memories that weren’t hers but ached as if they were.

  And now she had unhappy memories of her own.

  She couldn’t stay. Not after having been such a fool. And not when it was so plain that Dean didn’t want her here. She had convinced herself they could get past it, that in time they might even be friends—when the weirdness wore off, and her bruises began to fade. And maybe they could have. But not now, after yesterday’s bluntly illuminating conversation.

  The thought of turning her back on her father’s gift broke her heart, but she’d been wrong to ever think she belonged here. Wishful thinking, that’s all it was. Not a sign. Not fatherly wisdom. Wishful damn thinking. Like trying to wedge the wrong piece into a jigsaw puzzle; you could force it, but it would never truly fit.

  She dreaded having to tell Sheila that her plans had changed again, and sitting through the exasperated but well-meaning lecture that would certainly ensue. She needed to get it over with, though—the sooner, the better. They were meeting later on for a late lunch. She’d break the news then. She felt like the worst kind of heel, but at least she wasn’t backing out completely. She’d just be handling her duties long-distance.

  She’d be gone next week if all went according to plan, as soon as she could get the cottage packed up and finalize the details of the sale. She had an old flatmate who was working in London and had been nagging her for years to come visit. It was as good a place as any, she supposed. She’d take some time off, bum around the British Isles, somewhere damp and gray and rainy, where everything she looked at didn’t remind her of Hideaway Key.

  It was one o’clock and the deck at the Sundowner was humming with lunchtime activity, the tables full, the air thick with music and coconut-scented tanning oil. Lily wove her way through beachwear-clad patrons, scanning the crowd for Sheila. Bubba and Drew were at the bar, looking like twins in their ball caps and golf shirts. They were bantering about something over their beers, sharing a basket of fries—a happy couple enjoying the day and each other’s company.

  Bubba picked her out of the crowd and raised a hand in greeting. Lily returned the wave but kept moving. It was strange, but in her mind her decision to leave Hideaway had recast her as an outsider, a stranger just passing through town. Everywhere she looked was something she would miss.

  She was almost relieved when she finally spotted Sheila in the shade of a large striped umbrella, looking sunny and fresh in melon-colored capris and a crisp white blouse. She reached for a smile as she dropped into the opposite chair, glad to see that Sheila had taken the liberty of ordering a round of drinks.

  “You look amazing. That’s a great color on you.”

  “Thanks, I feel amazing.” Sheila’s smile was closemouthed and vaguely conspiratorial. “Which is why I went ahead and ordered you a drink. We’re celebrating.”

  “Celebrating?”

  “I heard from my doctor last night. I’m clear.”

  “Oh, Sheila, that’s wonderful!” Lily was surprised by the acute rush of relief she felt on hearing the news. She hadn’t wanted to think about the possibility of a negative report, especially when she was about to deliver unwelcome news of her own.

  “It was such a relief to get the call,” Sheila said. “Now I can concentrate on learning what I need to from you.”

  Despite her best efforts, Lily felt her smile fade.

  Sheila noticed instantly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I know I said I was staying, Sheila, but something’s come up.”

  “Oh.” Sheila’s face registered shock, then disappointment. “Is the something in Milan?”

  “Actually, the something’s here.”

  “So it’s Dean? You two really can’t work it out?”

  “No, we can’t. And staying isn’t going to work. It would be awkward—for him and for me—but that doesn’t mean you and I can’t be partners. I want to be a part of what we’ve started here. I just need to do it from somewhere else.”

  “So you’re running again.”

  Lily pressed her lips together, stifling her first response. She’d been expecting this, and it was a fair assessment from Sheila’s point of view. “I’m not running, Sheila. I’m not taking a job anywhere, so that’s progress, right? I think I’m going to just travel a little and see what turns up. I actually think it might be fun.”

  “Who are you trying to convince, me or you?”

  Lily shook her head but summoned a smile. “This is what I need to do right now, Sheila. Maybe not what I want, but what I need.”

  “And your mind’s made up?”

  Lily nodded, tracing a finger around the rim of her drink, then licked the sugar from her fingertip. “I leave next week.”

  “Not messing around, are you? Have you told Dean?”

  “No, but I will. He’ll want the cottage, so I can kill two birds with one stone.”

  “And if he asks you not to go?”

  “He won’t.”

  “But if he did—would you stay?”

  Lily was spared having to answer when Salty appeared with a basket of shrimp and a second round of drinks. “On the house, ladies. Drink up.”

  “On the house?” Lily said, qui
rking a brow up at him. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Can’t a man be in a good mood without a reason?”

  Lily supposed he could at that, though the wink he threw Sheila as he turned to go hinted at something else. As did the flush that had crept into Sheila’s cheeks.

  “What was that all about?” Lily hissed when she was sure Salty was out of earshot. “And don’t say nothing. You turned three shades when he winked at you just now. Don’t tell me he finally got around to asking you out.”

  “No,” Sheila said, with a Cheshire grin. “I asked him.”

  “Well, good for you. And about time, too.”

  “I don’t know what got into me. I got that call from the doctor just as I was leaving the shop, and the next thing you know my car was steering its way over here. Thought maybe it was time I took my own advice.”

  Lily had just raised her glass, about to offer a toast, when Rhona descended in her customarily pungent cloud of patchouli. The salmon-colored hibiscus behind her left ear trembled dizzily as she dropped an arm about Sheila’s shoulder. “So happy to hear the news,” she chirped less than discreetly. “Yes, yes. I’ve heard, but then, I always do, don’t I? Apparently, your cards didn’t lie when they said all would be well.”

  Cards? Lily barely had time to shoot Sheila a look of astonishment before Rhona’s attention shifted in her direction. “Ah, and Ms. St. Claire, how are you enjoying your time in Hideaway?”

  Lily managed an uncomfortable smile. “Very well, Rhona, thank you.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Come by the shop sometime, and I’ll read your cards. I specialize in matters of the heart, you know, and the first reading’s free for locals.”

  Rhona moved off with a breezy wave, descending a moment later on a woman in a large straw hat several tables away. Lily leaned in the second she was gone. “You went to her for a reading? I thought you said she was a crackpot.”

  Sheila hung her head sheepishly. “I did say that, and she is—a little. But when you’re scared to death you’ll do anything to feel better. And who knows? She did turn out to be right. Maybe you should pay her a visit. You heard her. She specializes in matters of the heart.”

  Lily flashed her a dark look. “I thought that was your specialty.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t exactly been helping, have I? Or you wouldn’t be hightailing it out of here next week.”

  “We’ll work it out, Sheila, I promise,” Lily said, finally lifting her glass. “Now let’s toast to your good news.”

  Lily was relieved to have the conversation with Sheila behind her, though it had actually gone more smoothly than she’d expected. There had been no lecture, no condemnation or third degree. Either Sheila had known her words would fall on deaf ears, or she had been distracted by her impending and long-overdue date with Salty.

  Now, back at the cottage, it was time to face the thing she’d truly been dreading: looking Dean in the eye and telling him good-bye. No reason to dally or put off the inevitable. She’d swallow her pride and accept his offer to buy the cottage, then pack up Lily-Mae’s things and hand over the key. In six months the place would be gone, razed to the ground along with its memories, and she would be somewhere else.

  It was for the best, really—a win-win solution for them both—at least that’s what she’d been telling herself since lunch, and was still telling herself as she left the cottage. She opted to go to the front door. This wasn’t a social call; it was business. She rehearsed her words as she crossed the driveway, then ducked through a space in the hibiscus hedge. She was about to pass through to the other side when she saw Dean step out the front door, an overstuffed duffel over his shoulder, Dog dancing anxiously at his heels.

  She watched from the cover of the hedge as he tossed his duffel into the back of his truck, then climbed into the cab after Dog. Off to Chicago again, she supposed, or perhaps some new client. It didn’t matter. With any luck she’d be gone before he returned. The sale could be handled long-distance, and there was really nothing more to say. They’d done their good-bye, such as it was.

  Standing over Lily-Mae’s desk, she penned a brief note apprising Dean of her plans and giving him Stephen Singer’s number as a contact since she was likely to be out of the country for some time. She was preparing to seal the envelope when she remembered the key to Dean’s house. Wrestling it off her key ring, she dropped it in and sealed the flap. There was a sense of finality as she slid the envelope under his front door and turned away. All that was left now was the packing—and the leaving.

  FORTY-THREE

  Five days had passed since Dean loaded Dog into the truck and drove away, five days since Lily slid the note under his door, and still no word or sign of his truck. Business must be booming. If her luck held another few days she could make good her escape and spare them both an awkward farewell. She tried not to imagine his relief when he returned to find her packed up and gone. Or his satisfaction when he learned that the cottage was his for the taking if he still wanted it—which, of course, he would.

  She had hoped to be gone by now, but packing up and disposing of Lily-Mae’s things had proven more complicated than expected. After everything that had happened, everything she had learned, she possessed neither the discipline nor the clarity to make such decisions. She had planned to hire movers and let them handle it all, but found she simply couldn’t bring herself to make the phone call.

  There were a few things—not many, but a few—that she preferred to pack herself, personal items that held special meaning for her: the journals, of course, and Lily-Mae’s jar of shells, Chessie and the things from under the bed, the clothes in Lily-Mae’s closet, and her trousseau, certainly. The list seemed to grow every day, as did the collection of sealed and labeled boxes mounting once again in the tiny living room.

  And as the list grew, so did her need for boxes. Luckily, they knew her at the liquor store after her first round of decluttering, and they had promised to save her all the boxes she needed. Hopefully, today’s trip would be her last. If her calculations were correct, another two days and she’d be ready for the movers. Then there were the little odds and ends to be seen to before she locked up for the last time: utilities to shut off, the refrigerator to empty, the bed to strip, one final load of laundry.

  The thought made her want to turn around and head to the Sundowner for a protracted happy hour. Instead, she cut the engine with a sigh and opened the car door, wrestling with an armload of empty liquor boxes as she climbed out. As she stepped up onto the porch and fumbled with her keys, she couldn’t help recalling her first trip up those sagging wooden steps. It seemed a lifetime ago now, and perhaps it was. So much had happened since that night, so much had changed.

  It was a strange sensation. When she left for Paris she had parents, and a home to return to. Now, as she prepared to leave for London, she had neither—no home, no family to speak of, no ties of any kind. She was untethered, like a ship cut loose and set adrift, not moving toward anything, simply drifting away. Lily-Mae must have felt something similar, the keen but hollow awareness that there was nowhere on earth she could truly call home, no one anywhere she could call her own.

  There was another wave of déjà vu as Lily opened the door, the memory of other boxes stacked floor to ceiling, but there was no time to explore it. Something, a sound or some bit of movement out on the deck, caught her attention. Abandoning her cartons, she stepped to the sliding glass doors to peer out.

  Her breath caught when she saw him, standing with his back to her, elbows propped along the deck railing, eyes trained out to sea. He turned when he heard the doors slide, and stood looking at her.

  “You thought I’d gone,” she said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “So you thought you’d come over and get a jump on your plans.”

  “I was just . . .” He broke off, reaching into his back pocket.


  Lily watched as he produced the envelope she’d slid under his door and held it out to her. She looked at it, then at Dean. “I know what it says. I wrote it. I’ll be gone in a few days. You can make all the plans you like then.”

  “Lily, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Lily told him with a shake of her head. “This is what was supposed to happen. I just got caught up in everything and forgot. You were right. I was always going to sell you this place when I left. I shouldn’t have freaked out.”

  “I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about the other day, about the things I said. I was insensitive, thoughtless, whatever you want to call it, and I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it. I said some things, too. Things that were none of my business. I let Lily-Mae’s story get to me. You were right. I was wrong.”

  “No,” he said, after what seemed a very long time. “You weren’t wrong. The things you said about me—all of it was true. And it does have to do with my mother leaving, and what I watched it do to my father. Then that night when you started talking about jumping off cliffs . . . It spooked me. I went into retreat mode. Although, for the record, I wasn’t coming over here to call it quits the day I left for Chicago.”

  Lily nodded, afraid to trust her voice. In the end she turned away, not sure she could trust her face, either. “We don’t need to do this, Dean. Really. It’s over. You’re going your way and I’m going mine, just like we promised.”

  “I’ve been at my father’s.”