The One Who Stays

by Blake, Toni

  “I agree with all that,” Meg said. “I guess I just don’t know...how to know if there are any other secrets. Or that there won’t be more. And for something that was supposed to be a fun, casual fling, this has all gotten pretty heavy. If it’s just a fun, casual fling, why wouldn’t I go ahead and throw him out of my life right this minute?”

  Having just unrolled silverware from a white paper napkin, Suzanne pointed her fork at Meg. “That is indeed the question. And I think the answer is—it’s not casual anymore. And maybe it never was.”

  “I know. But I don’t know what it is. And to complicate matters, Zack could be home any day now. So that I can have two men I don’t know where I stand with. One I can’t trust, and one who keeps leaving me. Only...”

  “What?” Suzanne prodded.

  Meg sighed, almost hesitant to say it, believe it. “Zack has seemed different lately. Like something’s changed. He keeps saying he misses me.”

  “He misses knowing he can be complacent because he’s the only man in your life. Seth still has him jealous.”

  “And you think if Seth weren’t here, he’d go back to being the same old Zack?”

  “Only time can tell. Or not—maybe you want to head in a new direction. Maybe you want to try trusting Seth and see where this goes.”

  “Is that your official advice?”

  “No way. I have no idea if you can trust the guy. I like him, but liking someone doesn’t make them honorable.” She shook her head. “To be honest, I’m not sure what you should do, Meg, about any of it.”

  That quickly, the food came, Jolene rushing up to plop down two plates filled with eggs, sausage, and biscuits. Service at the Skipper’s Wheel was always fast, but especially during tourist season—because the menu was small, the griddle was always full, and they wanted to get you in and out so the next customer could take your place.

  “All I can say,” Suzanne told her, “is that I bet my no-dating lifestyle is looking pretty attractive and peaceful right about now.”

  Meg tilted her head. “I do like peaceful,” she agreed.

  As they dug into their food, Suzanne added, “By the way, we can’t keep avoiding Dahlia’s—it’s summer and I miss the waterside lunches.” It was true Meg hadn’t been in to the café since before the picnic table painting party—she hated that she felt awkward now with her older friend, but she did.

  “At least the food is good here,” she replied.

  “Yes, but we eat here all winter. Summer is Dahlia time. And this place doesn’t invite you to linger. We sometimes like to linger.”

  Just then Meg looked up to see a tall, handsome man enter the small, crowded restaurant. “Well, apparently it’s good enough for Beck Grainger.”

  “One more strike against him,” Suzanne groused.

  Meg rolled her eyes. “Oh brother. Can you please do me a favor and just get real about him.”

  Across from her, Suzanne blew out a heavy sigh and looked a little sad. “You’re right, you’re right. In a way, I mean.”

  “Which way?”

  “I know he’s been perfectly nice to me and I’ve been perfectly horrible to him.” She took a deep breath and let it back out. “And like it or not, given that he keeps turning up like a bad penny, I should probably do something to fix that.”

  Meg sat up a little straighter, lowering her chin. “How shockingly mature of you. What did you have in mind?”

  “Give me a few minutes to think about it,” she said, and they continued their meal as Beck took an empty seat at the end of the counter nearest to them. Meg almost harbored a little hope that Suzanne was going to relent and decide to give the guy a chance—but at the same time she knew that probably wasn’t the case. She’d seldom met anyone so stubborn.

  When Jolene brought their bills, handwritten on an old-fashioned order pad and placed facedown on the table, Suzanne scooped them both up. “You’ve had a cruddy day so far—lunch is on me.”

  They rose to leave, Suzanne leading—when she suddenly pulled up short, paused, and took a step backward, placing her directly behind Beck Grainger’s stool. She looked back at Meg—a courage-gathering look—then tapped his shoulder.

  He turned his head—then blinked, appearing understandably taken aback that she would instigate conversation with him.

  “Um,” Suzanne began, and inside Meg cringed, silently willing her not to somehow crack up and be as mean to him as she usually was. It was bad enough as a response, but would be beyond horrific if she was the one starting it. “I...just wanted to tell you...that I’m not actually rude or crazy—usually.”

  “Okay,” he said quietly, his expression a bit wary.

  She pressed awkwardly on. “I’m just a widow not really ready for male attention.” She stopped, winced. “If that’s what you were giving me. If not, now I’m doubly embarrassed.”

  He looked more comfortable at this point. “No,” he said assuringly, “it’s what I was giving you.”

  She pursed her lips, clearly a little embarrassed anyway. “I’m sorry, for how I’ve been, and that I can’t reciprocate. It’s not you, it’s me. For real.”

  He sighed, pursed his lips, acceptant if a bit disappointed. A prince of a man in Meg’s opinion. “I’m sorry about the reciprocation part.”

  “If I ever snap out of it, I’ll let you know,” Suzanne rattled on. “And until then, I’ll try not to treat you like a pariah.”

  He offered a small smile. “It would be nice to be in the same room with you without feeling like you hate me.”

  “I don’t. I promise.”

  And then she walked on, toward the cash register, quick as that—conversation over. Meg gave Beck a short, awkward smile and then followed her friend. “Well done,” she whispered as they squeezed past the rest of the stools.

  Even if she didn’t love the way it had ended, she respected Suzanne for making peace with him. Yes, she did like peace. And the very thought reminded her—that was what had brought her to Summer Island. And what had kept her on Summer Island.

  She wanted it back.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY Mr. Carmichael checked out, along with the Eastmans, and the Merritts left the day after that. A group of friends, three women in their forties, checked in. As did an older couple who’d stayed at the inn once before—the Hinkles.

  A family of five named the Waltermans were due this evening, but for now, the Summerbrook Inn lay quiet, its guests all out and about, giving Meg a taste of that peace she’d been yearning for, even if it didn’t stretch all the way to her heart.

  She’d just done some washing of linens, freshening up towels in all the guestrooms and putting fresh sheets on the beds to be occupied by the Walterman family—and also changed the sheets on her own bed.

  As she finished, she caught sight of the bottle of lilac water she’d made with Seth sitting on her dresser. She picked it up and spritzed a bit into the air, over her bed. Ahhh—he was right, it was potent. She breathed it in, let it fill her senses. It brought memories of her time with him—before things had gotten so heavy and worrisome, when it had been only about the clawing magnetism of chemistry and flirting and touching and connecting.

  But as quickly as all that came, she tried to push it aside. It was those things that had gotten her into this confusing mess—and right now she just wanted to enjoy the simple scent of lilacs in her room, and maybe revisit her grandmother’s sixteenth summer.

  With that thought in mind, she made her way downstairs, poured herself a glass of freshly made pink lemonade, and fetched the diary from the bookshelves in the nook. She exited the back door and walked across the yard to the rose garden, settling in one of the metal chairs.

  July 25, 1957

  Dear Diary,

  J.T. wants to go all the way before he leaves for college. He tried to get me to the other night. We’d picnicked
with his family up in the meadow, but they’d all gone home. It started getting dark and the moon came out in a big clear sky, and the weather was so lovely that when he started kissing me and laying me back on the picnic blanket, it was easy to let him. When he tried to go further, though, I pulled away and told him we couldn’t, that it wouldn’t be right. He asked me what difference it made since we’re getting married anyway. And he says it will make college life without me more bearable if we do it before he goes.

  Part of me thinks it would be nice to send him off with that memory. But I also think it might be better to wait until our wedding night, make it special that way.

  What should I do, diary?

  Yours, tempted but confused,

  Peggy

  Meg stopped without turning the page. If her grandmother were here right now, if she knew Meg had found her diary, would she want her to be reading this? Maybe that was why people kept diaries—a place to write down things they didn’t want to share with other people, thoughts and feelings that were too private to tell anyone else.

  The diary didn’t talk a lot about close friends, particularly after the early pages. It seemed her social life had become largely about J.T.—if you didn’t count the ever-aggressive Ace—and so maybe young Peggy had ended up with no one to confide in the way Meg could with Suzanne. And maybe in the fifties the idea of having sex with your boyfriend was so forbidden that some girls wouldn’t tell their friends anyway—Meg didn’t know. And she wasn’t sure she was meant to read about her grandparents’ first sexual encounter.

  But the pages of the diary were like an unfolding mystery in a way. For one thing, she knew her grandparents didn’t actually marry until her grandma was twenty and her grandpa twenty-one, so now she was curious why it ultimately didn’t happen sooner, as the diary implied it would. And she supposed she also wanted to reach the part where her grandma seemed truly happy with only Grandpa John, and less tempted by other boys. Even knowing it ended up that way, she yearned to see it on the page. She wanted the mysteries cleared up.

  And despite the surprises wrapped in that worn red leather cover, reading it still helped her feel that strong bond with her grandmother—she still missed her all these years later, and right now especially, the sense of connection was a balm to her soul.

  So she turned the page.

  August 4, 1957

  Dear Diary,

  The most awful thing happened. I went all the way. But not with J.T. With Ace!

  It happened last night. J.T. was sick with a summer cold, and I was bored, and it was a pretty night out, so I wandered up to the Five and Dime. I shouldn’t have, I know. But once I was there, nothing seemed so terrible about just drinking a black cow and talking to a boy on a quiet summer night.

  When the shop closed, Ace wanted to walk me home. It was dark out, the streets empty, so I agreed, hoping no one would see. Only when we got to my house, he wanted to keep walking. Onto the island road, where it’s so much more desolate—and then up into the meadow near the old stone church. I kept saying no, but I kept going. I can’t explain it, but... I couldn’t not go.

  And that’s how it was when he began to kiss me, too. I never thought of stopping, not once. I never thought of getting caught or being seen. I never thought of all the reasons it was wrong. Because it didn’t feel wrong, not at all. He sets something in me on fire.

  And, diary, it was perfect! I worried it would hurt, but it didn’t. I worried it would be scary, but it wasn’t. The air was warm and soft all around us, and I could smell something sweet—flowers I couldn’t see in the dark, I suppose. Ace knew just what to do, and he didn’t make me feel awkward or embarrassed at all. It was like being in a dream.

  Until afterward, when I realized what I’d done. How could I have betrayed J.T. this way? What kind of a girl am I?

  I ran away from him afterward—ran all the way home in the dark. Ace chased after me for a while, calling to me that it was all right. But how can it ever be all right?

  What am I going to do now, diary? How can I keep this from the boy I love? Yet of course I have to. I’ll have to take it to the grave.

  And I have to find a new place to hide this diary, too! I’ve been keeping it in a dresser drawer, but will need a better spot now that I’ve confessed in ink!

  Poor J.T. He’s so excited about leaving for college, so excited for me to go down to Lansing with him. He has no idea what a despicable girl I am!

  And I can never see Ace again! I’m not sure how I’m going to keep from it—but I have to.

  Yours, ever so shamefully,

  Peggy

  Meg just sat staring at the ink signature, stunned.

  Oh Gran.

  Gran, Gran, Gran.

  Her heart broke for her sweet grandma. It was so strange to be getting to know her as a young girl, and even stranger to see how her wise and whimsical grandmother had once judged herself so harshly for her humanness, her feelings of desire. She longed to somehow go back in time and tell her that giving in to passion didn’t make her a bad person.

  On the other hand, though, it stung to learn that Gran had betrayed Grandpa that way. Even if Meg hadn’t been too crazy about him pressuring Gran before she was ready.

  Meg let out a sigh. Had Gran ever told him? Had he ever found out? Worse, had things continued with Ace? Or did she follow through on not seeing him again? She forgave her grandmother’s youthful indiscretion instantly, but it hadn’t been the right thing to do, so at the same time it made her hurt for her grandfather, whether or not he’d ever known.

  She’d never dreamed her grandparents’ relationship had started out on such rocky ground. When she’d opened this diary, she’d expected it to be the fun musings of a teenage girl who loved Elvis and American Bandstand—she’d had no idea the things she would learn about her grandma’s past.

  Maybe this just proved that no one’s life was as simple as it might look from a distance.

  She was trying to gather the courage to turn to the next page—when voices caught her ear and she glanced up through the flowers and summer foliage to see a family strolling up the inn’s front walk. The Waltermans had arrived early.

  And maybe it was just as well. She wasn’t sure she could take any more surprises from Gran today.

  Closing the book, she picked up her empty glass and crossed the yard toward the back door, ready to go inside, empty her hands, and head to the entryway to greet her guests. She’d just stepped onto the stone patio when something shiny on the ground caught her eye.

  Another penny.

  She gasped softly, surprised.

  And yet maybe not as surprised as before. Since this was starting to feel almost commonplace.

  Transferring the diary into the opposite arm, she bent to pick it up.

  And like when she’d found the last one, something made her check the year. 2004.

  The year her grandmother had died.

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING came early, as she’d offered to make her guests pancakes. Sometimes such an event was planned, other times more spontaneous—and on this occasion it had simply spilled from her lips when Mr. Walterman had asked about a good place for breakfast and she’d found herself explaining how crowded the Skipper’s Wheel and Dahlia’s got this time of year.

  Part of her wanted to kick herself—it meant getting up with the birds, and certainly made the inn no more money. But on the other hand, any distraction was good right now—and it was also the kind of thing her grandmother used to do. The innkeeper didn’t fall far from the tree.

  Climbing out of bed as dawn began to break outside her eastern facing bedroom window, she dressed quickly, then grabbed up a brush and ran it through her hair. Standing at her dresser, her eyes fell to the penny she’d stumbled upon last night. The fact that it was minted the year Gran died surely meant nothing, same as the other penny
bearing the year of Aunt Julia’s passing meant nothing. Coincidences.

  About loss.

  About losing women Meg had loved—strong, beautiful women who’d lived and died on this island.

  You’re reading too much into this. The very nature of a coincidence was that it made random things seem connected when they were not. They were just pennies, for goodness’ sake—hardly rare objects.

  She wasn’t sure what had become of the others—stuck in pockets somewhere probably and hadn’t yet worked their way out in the washer or dryer—but meaningless or not, she felt compelled to hold on to this one. Just in case somehow it wasn’t. Meaningless.

  Next to it lay her grandma’s diamond ring. It wasn’t practical innkeeper wear, but she still found herself slipping it on at times, wishing it fit any one of her fingers better than it did. Perhaps she should have it sized. Or maybe it was odd to wear someone else’s wedding ring, even as a keepsake—she wasn’t sure. Though it also seemed sad to just stick it in a jewelry box and let it be forgotten again after having been hidden so long.

  For this moment, however, the jewelry box was where she decided to put it. She’d never had a problem with inn guests coming into her room—it was clearly marked and usually locked during the day—but she couldn’t help thinking that apparently her grandmother had once found it safe to leave lying around, too, and look what had happened.

  Soon she would call her mother and tell her about the ring—but she wasn’t sure how to explain where it had come from, so until she figured that part out, she’d keep it here in her room, her secret now instead of Seth’s.

  Her heart pinched thinking of him. True to her request, he’d stayed away. Though Suzanne had seen him at Koester’s Market. They’d exchanged hellos, he’d asked her to tell Meg hi, and she’d promised she would. Meg took a deep breath, let it back out. Started toward the stairs. There were pancakes to make.