Summer at Hideaway Key

by Barbara Davis

  Lily’s head came around slowly. “I thought you went back to Chicago.”

  “My father’s,” he said quietly. “It was time.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “It was hard. For both of us, I think. There was a lot to say.”

  “But you said it?”

  “We both did. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one holding things back. We fought a little, too, about how he was after she left, how he couldn’t let go of a single thing that reminded him of her. I didn’t understand how he could bear holding on to all those memories when it had ended so badly, how he could go on loving her after what she did to him—to us. And then I realized it didn’t matter how. It just mattered that he did. And I made my peace—with all of it. My mother. My father. Myself.”

  Lily couldn’t help but think of Caroline, of the hatred and anger she had allowed to poison her life, and of the anger she herself now bore toward Caroline, and would have to learn to let go of, if she could. “Just like that?” she asked quietly. “After all the years of blame and anger, you’re just . . . over it?”

  Dean laughed, a brief, brittle snort. “I didn’t say I was over it. At least not yet. I said I made my peace with it. They’re not the same thing. One is about how I feel. The other is about how someone else feels. I realized it isn’t my business—or my job—to decide how my father feels about my mother—then or now. Especially when most of the time I choose not to know what I’m feeling myself. I’m not sure when, but at some point I obviously I decided the best defense was to just stuff everything down, pretend I didn’t feel anything at all. That way I could maintain—how did you put it?—that tough-guy thing I do.”

  Lily winced. “I’m sorry. I was mad. I should never have said that.”

  “Why? It’s true. Everything you said that day was true. All these years I’ve been seeing my father’s grief as a weakness, which is why I decided I wasn’t going to be like him, wasn’t going to be sniveling and weak. So I shut down. That way there was no possibility of getting hurt. Or so I thought.”

  She nearly reached out to touch his cheek, shadowed with several days of dark growth, but stopped herself in time. “You look tired.”

  “It was a rough week, but a good one.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “You’re the reason I went.” The words came out softly, almost breathlessly, as if he’d been holding them in a long time. “Because of the things you said. I was afraid you might be right, and I didn’t want you to be. You were, though. I’ve been an ass. When you showed up in Hideaway, all I could think of was finally getting my hands on this place. Then I got to know you, to like you, and I thought, Why not? It’s only for the summer. It felt—”

  “Safe?”

  “Yes. But something happened. I felt things changing between us, and I didn’t know how to process that. All I knew was it scared the hell out of me. We had a deal, no complications, and all of a sudden . . .”

  “Things were getting complicated.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “When you said you were staying, I didn’t—”

  “Dean, I told you, we don’t need to do this. I’m leaving Hideaway, and you can have the cottage. We’re back to the original deal.”

  “I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to say, Lily.” He looked down at the envelope in his hand, sadly mangled now, and held it out to her. “I don’t want this.”

  Lily eyed the envelope. “This?”

  “The cottage. I don’t want it anymore.”

  She stared at him, letting the words settle while the breeze whipped her hair about her face. “You’re right,” she said finally. “I don’t understand. Your clients—”

  “I found them another lot, a bigger one.”

  “Well, then, I guess you’re back to your original plan. You can knock it down, along with yours, and build a great big house for yourself.”

  “I don’t want to knock either of them down. Especially not mine.”

  “Why not yours? I thought—”

  “Because it isn’t just a house now. Not when you’re there.”

  Lily’s heart suddenly wobbled against her ribs. “What are you saying?”

  “What I should have said weeks ago, before I wrecked everything: that you don’t have to leave . . . that I don’t want you to leave.” He paused, swallowing hard enough to set his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I know it’s not what we agreed on, but I was a fool to say yes to that stupid deal.”

  Lily blinked past a sudden blur of tears. “You haven’t been the only fool. I was so busy analyzing you that I forgot to take a look at myself. Sheila pointed it out, but it was Lily-Mae who finally made me understand. She was so strong, for Caroline, and for my father, so determined to rescue them from pain and harm. She was willing to face anything, to sacrifice everything. But when it came to herself—to looking after her own heart—she ran every time, just like me. She was afraid of the pain, afraid to risk her heart, and she wound up alone, living on memories and regrets. I don’t want to end up like she did. I don’t want to be alone.”

  Dean reached for her hand, winding warm fingers tightly through hers. “You don’t have to be alone, Lily. Neither of us does.”

  She tipped her head back, meeting his gaze with an intensity of her own. “I don’t want to get it wrong this time, Dean. I need to know what you’re saying, straight-out.”

  He drew her close then, until she could feel the thud of his heart against her ribs, weighty and just a little fast. “I’m saying I’m ready to jump off a cliff, Lily—with you.”

  Lily blinked once, twice, feeling almost dizzy. “Are you sure? I mean, really sure?”

  Dean’s arms tightened with a sudden fierceness. “I am. And the reason I know I am is because I’m absolutely terrified, and I’m ready to jump anyway.”

  A tiny half smile tugged at the corners of Lily’s mouth as she went up on tiptoe. “Good,” she murmured whisper-soft against his lips. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  Lily lifted the hair off the back of her neck, letting the warm sea breeze caress her damp skin. For what was supposed to be the end of summer, it certainly was hot. Not that the heat had stopped the Labor Day weekenders from piling into Hideaway, their SUVs and minivans crammed full of coolers and rafts and barbecue grills.

  The whole town was jumping, motels booked to capacity, restaurants staffed to the max, shops stocked to take full advantage of the season’s last hurrah. And yet the beach behind Sand Pearl Cottage was deserted, the private stretch of powder-white sand unspoiled by trash barrels overflowing with soda cans and empty potato chip bags. She gazed out over the water, at the smooth swells pushing their way up onto shore, wishing there were time for one more walk before the movers arrived. There wasn’t. In fact, they were already late.

  Ducking back inside, she was again struck by the sight of so many boxes—nearly as many as there had been that first night—and by the unnerving emptiness of the place, stripped bare now of Lily-Mae’s things, of the knickknacks and whatnots that had once made it hers.

  Lily was reaching for the phone to call the movers and get a revised ETA when she saw Dean coming up the back steps, his ever-present canine companion eagerly in tow. She barely had time to put down the receiver and brace for impact.

  “Chester!” Lily laughed as she staggered backward against sixty pounds of flying fur and lolling tongue. “You’ll knock me down!”

  “Chester.” Dean repeated the name slowly, as if tasting it, then shook his head. “I’m still not used to the new name. He’s been Dog since the day I found him. Now all of a sudden he’s Chester.”

  “He likes it,” Lily protested. “Look at him. He’s smiling.”

  “He likes you. He doesn’t care what you call him. Not that I fault him for his taste. Anyway, I’m done moving all the boxes you wanted over to the hou
se.”

  “Thank you, but are you sure you don’t mind me cluttering up your place with all my stuff?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. And it’s not my place—it’s our place. I love you, Lily St. Claire. And the reason I know this is because I let you name my dog. Next thing you know, I’ll be hanging pictures on the walls.”

  Lily grinned at their small private joke. “Easy, Romeo. One step at a time.”

  “Speaking of hammers and nails, my guys should be here bright and early tomorrow morning to start the renovations.” He paused, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “It’s a good thing you’re doing, Lily, setting up the foundation and turning this place into a retreat for breast cancer survivors. Lily-Mae would be pleased. And proud.”

  Lily looked around the cottage, stripped to the bare walls now, and tried to imagine it when the renovations were complete. “I hope so,” she said almost gloomily. “I’d like to think I made her proud, that I’m doing something worthwhile with what she and my father left me. Sheila said something once that stuck with me. She said when she was diagnosed and going through chemo she wanted to run away, to hide, but that there was nowhere to go. I started wondering how many other women felt that way. And then I remembered a line from one of Lily-Mae’s journals. She wrote that the cottage had always been a place of refuge and healing, and I thought maybe it could be that for other women, too. And it’s a way to honor her memory. Her life might not have been a happy one, but in the end it will stand for something. I want Sand Pearl Cottage to be a place for hope and healing—everything it wasn’t for Lily-Mae. And if it works, I’d like to set up more like it all over the country.”

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea. You always wanted to do something meaningful, and here you are—doing it.”

  “My North Star,” Lily said, smiling past the lump in her throat.

  A knock sounded at the front door before Dean could respond. At the same time the phone began to jangle. Dean headed for the door, and presumably, the movers, while Lily grabbed the phone.

  “They’re here!” It was Sheila, out of breath and nearly squealing on the other end of the line. “The first shipment of samples just came.”

  “Wow, almost two weeks ahead of schedule. How do they look?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want to open the box until you were here. Can you come over?”

  Lily mouthed a silent thank you to Dean as he took charge of the movers. He’d been so helpful over the past few weeks, and so supportive of her new endeavors, of the Lily-Mae Foundation and her plans for renovating the cottage, volunteering his time and professional skills for any and all future plans.

  Sheila was still rambling excitedly on the other end of the phone. Lily waited until she paused to take a breath. “Unfortunately, the movers just showed up, which means I’m stuck here until they’re through, but I can come by later. I can’t wait to get a look. All I can say is this new line had better be a success. Lord knows I’ve burned my bridges with Izzani, and probably everyone else.”

  “Maybe. But look what you’re doing instead. I’m so proud of you, Lily. The foundation is going to make a difference in hundreds of women’s lives.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, Sheila. I had an idea, but it was your experience and connections that really got it off the ground. By the way, in case I forgot to say it, thanks.”

  “You didn’t forget. And you’re welcome.” There was a pause, followed by what sounded like sipping and swallowing. “So . . . movers. Doesn’t sound like fun. Have you decided what you’re going to do with Lily-Mae’s things?”

  “Not all, no. Some I’ll bring back after the renovations are finished. It feels right having some of her things in the cottage. The rest will go into storage until I decide what to do with it. It’s a lifetime’s worth of stuff. I want to get it right.”

  “Sugar, there isn’t a chance in the world of you doing anything but. Your daddy knew exactly what he was doing when he left you that place. Now go crack the whip on those movers, and get over here as quick as you can.”

  Lily wove in and out of each room, making one final check. It had taken the movers less than two hours to strip the cottage bare, but she wanted to be sure nothing had been overlooked. Her footsteps echoed sharply in the empty quiet, hollow-sounding and vaguely disturbing. Stripped of all signs of inhabitation, the place looked shabby and sad, but Lily-Mae’s things—some of them, at least—would be back soon enough. It was comforting to know that Lily-Mae would never quite be gone from Sand Pearl Cottage, that some part of her would always linger. She thought her father might like the idea, too.

  “Lily?”

  It was Dean, calling from the living room. “I’m coming,” she called back, stealing one last glimpse of the sea before pulling the curtains closed. It was time to go.

  Dean was waiting by the sliding glass doors when she stepped back into the living room. “Ready?” he asked quietly, as if he, too, felt the weight of the moment.

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be sad, Lily. The next time you see this place it’ll knock your socks off.”

  “I know it will.”

  Still, she felt forlorn as she retrieved her purse from the kitchen counter, along with the last of Lily-Mae’s journals. She’d been carrying it around for weeks, like a prayer book or a talisman. Silly, perhaps, but it gave her a sense of connection, a slender thread tying her to the mother she never knew, and the woman who had inspired her to undertake this new mission. Lily swallowed the sudden ache in her throat. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t cry. This wasn’t the end of anything. It was a beginning—new, fresh, hopeful. And yet Lily-Mae’s presence seemed to linger, her story unfinished somehow.

  “Lily?”

  She looked up, smiling wistfully. “I know. Time to go.”

  She stared at the journal another few moments, then dropped it into her purse as she turned toward the sliding glass doors. She was startled when it thumped to the floor, splayed facedown at her feet on the scarred pine boards, not because she had managed to miss her purse entirely, but because she was staring at what appeared to be a sheet of pale blue paper peeking from between its pages. But how? The journal contained only a handful of entries, and she’d gone over each one at least a dozen times. She would have seen a letter, especially one written on Lily-Mae’s stationery. Unless . . . Yes, of course.

  A little thrill ran through her as she recalled the stained pages near the back of the book, mottled with some unnamed gooey brown substance. She hadn’t paid much attention at the time, since the involved pages all appeared to be blank. Could it have been hiding there all the time, pressed between two gummy pages, inadvertently hidden from sight?

  Dean scooped up the journal, closing it gently as he placed it in her hands. The bit of blue paper had disappeared again, but it was still there somewhere, tucked between the pages. Laying the journal on the counter, Lily turned to the back, carefully teasing apart the clumped pages. Perhaps it was nothing, an address or a grocery list, tucked away and forgotten, but deep down she knew better. And then she was staring at it—a creased sheet of familiar blue stationery.

  Her heart squeezed against her ribs when she saw the writing. Lily-Mae’s loopy script and slanting lines were unmistakable but were also difficult to decipher, especially near the bottom, as if penned in haste—or in pain. Lily scanned the first few lines until they began to jumble and blur.

  “He was here,” she whispered, reaching blindly for Dean’s hand. “Listen . . .” Dashing away her tears, she began again at the top, hands trembling as she read aloud.

  EPILOGUE

  My beloved Roland,

  After all my books and all my scribbling, I find there are no words to express what these last few weeks have meant to me, or what my heart felt when I looked up to find you standing there, tears in your eyes for the sight I’ve become, a shadow of the woma
n you once loved. I pretended I didn’t want you here—didn’t want you feeding me, reading to me, holding my hand while I slept—but you would not go, and after a while I stopped asking.

  Thank God.

  We have had our little time together, our blissful beginning and our bitter end, and now—at the last—our stolen moments of reconciliation, of salving wounds and making amends. I will cling to them when I am gone, to those first days, when we walked hand in hand, hunting shells to mark the days, and to these last precious few, when you carried me, bundled against the November wind, down to the water’s edge, to press a small shell into my hand—a bittersweet echo of those early times, when everything was new and unspoiled. But it must all end now, my love, as we both knew it would.

  But first, my dear Roland, there are things to say, curtains to draw, and loose ends to tie up—things about our child. You have never told her the truth, though whether that has to do with my wishes, my sister’s, or your own, I do not know. I only know I’m glad. She might have wanted to come to me, out of anger or pity or mere curiosity, and I don’t think I could have borne it—seeing her after so many years, and knowing all I have missed.

  I forget sometimes that she’s all grown-up, imagining her still as a tiny flame-haired girl perched on her father’s shoulders. Silly, perhaps. Time marches on. But I have only laid eyes on her twice in my life, once when they pulled her red and squalling from my body, and then that terrible day in the park. I have missed her so, and miss her still, but that is as it must be. There is no time for regrets, even if I had them. I haven’t much to leave, only this cottage, which you gave me, and the little bits I’ve collected over the years. Nothing of much consequence, but they’re yours when I’m gone, to deal with as you see fit. And to do with as you please when you, too, are gone. I will leave no wishes, but trust you to do what is best.

  I have been thinking about time lately, taking the measure of my days, as we all must, or should, when we finally come to the end of our road. And I have come to mine. People will say I took the coward’s way out, swallowing a handful of pills rather than letting God have his way. Let them say it. I have not chosen it because I’m afraid of what comes next, of the pain or the dying—I’ve endured much worse than dying. It’s that I have had so few choices in my life. Now, finally, I will choose.