The One Who Stays

by Blake, Toni

  When Dahlia spoke, it came out sounding cautious. “I guess you know Zack left yesterday. In something of a hurry, too.”

  Meg pursed her lips, sighed. “Did he? No, I didn’t know. But we...broke up. For good.”

  Across from her, Dahlia seemed to wilt in her chair. “I was afraid of that.”

  “I...asked him to stay. To really stay. To build a clientele closer to the island so that he could come home at night, so that we could have a real life together. But he couldn’t do that, and I couldn’t go on the way things were.” She reached across the table to squeeze her older friend’s hand where it rested next to her glass. “I hope you understand. I didn’t want to abandon him—but I didn’t like feeling abandoned every time he left, either.” She shook her head. “He and I just want two different kinds of life, that’s all.”

  Dahlia let out a heavy sigh of her own. She wore a large purple flower in her silvery hair today and the petals ruffled in the breeze. “I do understand. I do.” She looked Meg in the eye. “I shouldn’t have butted in to your relationship—I regret that I let things get tense between you and I. My love for the boy got the best of me. And I wish things were different, that you two could have worked things out—but I understand.”

  The words heartened Meg. “Then you’re not mad at me? I hated feeling like you were.”

  Dahlia shook her head. “Of course not. Zack will always be my nephew, and you’ll always be my friend. There’s room enough in my heart for the both of you.”

  Then Meg glanced over at Suzanne. “Seth is gone, too, by the way.”

  Suzanne gasped. “Say it ain’t so. I loved him. For you, I mean.”

  “I know. And I thought...well, I thought something good was happening there. But I was wrong. And all of this happened yesterday in the space of about an hour—hence my needing a ladies lunch.”

  “An hour,” Suzanne repeated. “Hell, you don’t need a lunch—you need a stiff drink.”

  Meg laughed. “Yeah, maybe that, too.”

  “We should go out tonight. All three of us. What do you say?” Suzanne glanced back and forth between them. “Drinks and dancing at the Pink Pelican?”

  “I don’t know how much dancing I’m good for,” Dahlia said, “but sure—I’ll give it a whirl. Been a while since I tied one on.”

  And while the Pink Pelican might actually be a little more excitement than Meg was really up for at the moment—a girls’ night in with movies and ice cream might have sounded better—she didn’t want to dampen her friends’ enthusiasm. And she’d never seen Dahlia tie one on. And maybe any diversion from her woes would help them pass faster. “Okay—I’m in, too.”

  “If I were you,” Suzanne said, “I would throw all caution to the wind tonight and get rip-roaring drunk.”

  “Sure, okay,” Meg replied, at this point thinking, why not? “As long as I’m still able to clean bathrooms and make beds tomorrow.”

  Suzanne smiled. “Tell you what—if you aren’t, just call me and I’ll come clean.”

  “Me, too,” Dahlia said. “Assuming I’m not hungover myself.”

  * * *

  IT WAS A FUN NIGHT. Dahlia danced to Trevor’s version of “Wild Night Is Calling.” They all drank sex-on-the-beaches and Meg got a little weepy when he sang “Fire Lake”—for no particular reason other than it struck her as somber in a way she’d never noticed before. When he asked someone to yell out a request, Meg obliged with, “‘Peaceful Easy Feeling’! And let me know if you need me to feed you the lyrics this time!”

  After the friendly laughter died down and the song began, Suzanne said, “Sometimes you surprise me.”

  “It’s the liquor.”

  But her friend laughed. “No. I mean, I would have thought that song might remind you of the last time we were here, with Seth, and maybe make you sad.”

  “It does,” Meg said, then explained. “Hair of the dog.” After Trevor got past the first verse, and Meg got past some of those memories of that sweet, carefree night, she added, “Now I can enjoy the song again without it having anything to do with him.”

  No one got too tipsy to walk home, even if there was giggling along the way, and hugs when they all parted. Suzanne asked Meg quietly, “Are you okay?” It wasn’t about intoxication—it was about love, and loss.

  She answered just as quietly. “Yeah. Or I will be anyway.”

  More hugs, and as they all headed off to their respective homes, Meg felt thankful to be a part of a strong trio of independent women.

  Of course, once she was in the door, up the stairs, and in her room—away from the eyes of any guests who might be up late—she wept. It was still so new. Zack was out of her life—by reluctant choice. And Seth was out of her life—not by her choice at all.

  You’re better off without him, though, if this is who he really is. She knew that. And it really wasn’t much different than the situation with Zack—turned out he just wasn’t the man she wanted him to be.

  I love him. She’d known that deep down. And now she knew it without doubt. I love him and, like Zack, maybe I always will. And there would be more mourning to do. But life would go on, even if it felt a little empty and much less rich for not having him in it.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY started out blessedly quiet—no check-ins or checkouts, the house empty early as all her guests spilled out the front door for biking or hiking or fishing or Harbor Street shopping. The worst thing that happened was discovering that Miss Kitty had apparently gotten into a tussle with the phone on Meg’s desk, as well as a cup of pens—likely last night while she’d been out. Occasionally such little messes occurred—her generally calm cat sometimes liked to explore. And upon finding the landline and its answering machine base on the floor, the short cord yanked from the wall, and pens and pencils strewn about, Meg reassembled the desk, gently scolding the kitty with, “You’d better hope I didn’t miss anyone wanting to make a reservation, young lady.”

  She continued using the quiet time to tidy the office, kitchen, and common areas. When she passed through the nook, a feather duster in hand, it startled Miss Kitty from where she sat perched on a high shelf. The cat screeched and leaped to the easy chair, knocking a book to the floor with a thud in the process, then darted from the room.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Meg breathed, pressing a palm to her chest—Miss Kitty was having a rough day or two. Kind of like she was. So rather than be annoyed, she only sympathized and resolved to give the cat some extra treats later.

  Upon bending to pick up the book, she found it was her grandmother’s Bible. Black, soft cover—Gran had once told her she’d received it upon her baptism at the age of fourteen. And it had been sitting untouched on this shelf for...well, Meg didn’t know how long. Or actually, she did. It must have been among the stacks of books she and Seth had moved when he’d painted in here, most of which had belonged to her grandmother, and which she kept more out of sentimentality than anything else.

  Like in Gran’s diary, a red ribbon served as a bookmark, and the Bible fell open in Meg’s palm to where it lay: Matthew, Chapter 28. The page also held an old pale yellow Post-it note, which had been pressed carefully beneath the words: I am with you always, even until the end of the world. An arrow was drawn in ink on the sticky note, pointing to the words to make sure they weren’t missed. And on the Post-it in her grandmother’s handwriting, especially recognizable now, having just finished the diary:

  Look in the garden, under the loose bricks!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  SHE CAUGHT HER BREATH, remembering ever so vaguely a long-ago day when her grandma had instructed her to “climb up to the high shelf and get down my old Bible, Meg.” She tried to call up the details. It had been summer, hotter than usual, and she had the sense that perhaps she had been in a foul mood. It was the family’s usual lengthy summer vacation on the island, and Gran had spoken th
e words in her playful way—a way that told Meg a treasure hunt was afoot.

  Meg had been...how old? A teenager perhaps. An age at which the magic of Gran’s treasure hunts had lost their verve for her, seeming silly and childish. She’d meant to do it, check the shelf—she was sure of it—but something had kept her from it. What? Remember. Remember.

  Ah. Had it been Lila? A scream from outside. Yes. If she was remembering right, that had been the summer Lila fell from a tree she’d been forbidden to climb and broke her arm. They’d all ended up on the first ferry to the ER in St. Simon.

  Of course, Seth had pointed out to her that memory was sometimes a tricky thing—so maybe she was wrong. Maybe not checking the shelf and Lila’s broken arm had come at two entirely different times and she was conveniently shoving them together to justify never having found this note, something that seemed precious to her just now. But that didn’t matter—what mattered was the note itself.

  Look in the garden, under the loose bricks! She knew the ones, the exact ones. She’d even stopped Seth from repairing them this summer, thank goodness.

  Of course, whatever Gran might have placed there over twenty years ago was surely gone now. Surely.

  Except...what if it wasn’t? Because where on earth would it have gone?

  Even if she could find a mere remnant of something that had rotted into the earth over the years, it would be worth looking.

  As she lowered the Bible to the nook’s wide windowsill and made her way out the back door, her heart beat the same as it had on childhood treasure hunts with Gran. But for a different reason this time. Those treasure hunts as a little girl had held anticipation and mystery—but this, now, went beyond that. It was the same as finding the diary—one more piece of Gran to connect with, one last gift from her.

  She entered the lilac grove, absently pleased that the large bushes would hide her search from passersby on the street. This felt private, personal.

  She knelt in the grass next to the brick pathway, eased her fingertips between two bricks long missing their grout, and lifted one up. Underneath, dirt.

  She raised the one beside it then. To find...more dirt. She sighed.

  For a moment this had seemed so magical—but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe whatever Gran put here had long been lost to the elements and she’d never know what silly, wonderful little trinkets Gran had wanted to give her.

  However, after setting both bricks aside, she pulled up a third. Just in case.

  And caught sight of something—solid, maybe metal. She reached down to touch it. Dirt came off on her fingers, and what hid beneath the soil was silver in tone—but also covered in a thick layer of earth.

  She removed a fourth brick and realized the item was cylindrical. She chipped off more dirt with her fingernails, digging to reach it. She encountered an earthworm wriggling past, and a few gray pill bugs. Then after a moment, she touched something smooth—glass.

  A jar. It was a Mason jar.

  A little more digging, a little more prying, and enough earth fell away that she could grasp the dirty jar between her hands, extracting it from the ground.

  She fought to loosen the lid, and was about to give up and go in search of tools to help—when it finally twisted in her now-sore hands.

  Removing the lid was opening a time capsule. She held her breath as she peeked inside and began drawing the treasures out one by one.

  A package of the grape bubblegum she’d liked at the time, but hadn’t thought about since high school until just now.

  A few brightly colored pencil erasers—hot pink and lime green. She’d once gone through a neon phase, as most kids did, and Gran had remembered.

  And a roll of pennies.

  A roll. Of pennies.

  Curved around the hand-wrapped penny roll was a sheet of paper, folded twice, fragile at the creases. She opened it with care to read yet a few more words in her grandmother’s hand:

  Just some baubles to cheer you up. A broken heart is a broken heart, no matter how young or old you are. I know it hurts, but I promise they mend with time. Two things I want you to remember: The right boy won’t hurt you—he’ll make you feel as special as you are. And you’re never alone—I love you and I’ll always be here for you, whether we’re together or far apart.

  A soft gasp left her as she finished the letter. So much became clear all at once.

  She remembered now—she’d just broken up with her first real boyfriend at the time. Blake Milner had dumped her on the last day of school for the new girl, who had been enviably pretty and worn a bikini to the Junior Class Car Wash the week before.

  He’d been her first love—but this letter, which had somehow escaped her finding it then felt even more like it was meant to be read now. It felt as if Gran was with her now.

  And as crazy as it might sound if she ever told anyone, she knew without doubt that those pennies, those mysterious pennies, really had been pennies from heaven—Gran somehow trying to let her know she wasn’t ever really alone, ever really abandoned.

  Gripping the letter in one hand, the roll of pennies in the other, Meg sat in the grass amid the faded lilacs as tears of joy and love streamed down her cheeks. Somehow fate or God or her grandmother had known she needed this letter today more than she’d needed it back when it was written. She would treasure it always. And she would never ever let herself feel alone again.

  Distant laughter, the call of a bird, a squeaky bicycle—despite the noises of a tourist season day on the island, a peaceful solitude closed around her. And she realized how much she’d always felt her grandmother’s presence in the house, in the garden—everywhere on the island really. It had always been there—she’d just let heartache and confusion keep her from it for a while.

  And she no longer had any intention of leaving this place. What better existence did she think she’d find somewhere else? Why did she think she’d be happier on the mainland? Her life was here, in this community, in this inn. Her heart was here, too, just as her grandma’s had been. She never would have made this her home otherwise.

  She felt like Dorothy when she realized that whatever lay beyond the rainbow wasn’t actually what she needed at all. She already had what she needed.

  After reading the last diary entry, she’d thought that either Zack or Seth would be the one who stayed—but turned out the one staying...was her.

  * * *

  JUNE BECAME JULY. She attended the Fourth of July Kite Fly on the wide lawn of the Algonquian Hotel on the easternmost tip of the island with Suzanne and Dahlia, where she watched dozens of colorful kites dip and swirl and arc across a field of blue overhead. Cooper Cross flew a kite shaped like a jellyfish and Meg even took the strings herself for a few minutes with his instruction. Later the party moved to Lakeview Park, where she judged a pie contest, and later sat on a blanket watching fireworks. There were moments of remembering such events with Zack—but just as quickly remembering the events he hadn’t made it home for. And there were also moments of thinking it would have been nice to share it all with Seth—but then reminding herself that he’d chosen not to be here, too.

  More guests came and went at the inn. One morning she offered another pancake breakfast—and she soon held another cookout, wore a skirt, played horseshoes. The Himalayan lilacs blossomed more fully, making her emotions bittersweet. True to her plan, she rode her bike more, going out for morning jaunts around the island that reminded her why she loved it here.

  Every day, she looked for things to be grateful for, and always found plenty. Miss Kitty. Messages from Gran to cherish. Roses that bloomed all summer. The idyllic South Point Lighthouse that graced her view every time she left the inn. The rustle of leaves from a breeze. The path of a butterfly across the yard. A call from her Mom to say she and Dad were coming up for a week next month. Blue skies. Soft summer nights that blinked with fireflies and were good for taking walks.
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br />   She bought an old bicycle from Trent Fordham and painted it pale green, then hung flowerpots from each side and made a planter from the front basket, as well. Parking it in a flower bed behind the house visible from the patio, she decided she’d found her new hobby: Adding to the gardens her grandpa had started in her own crafty way.

  She had lunches and dinners with Suzanne and Dahlia. She stopped into the Pink Pelican one night by herself for a drink, realizing she didn’t need a companion for such an outing in her own little community. “Meg!” Trevor called through the microphone when she walked in. “That’s Meg, everybody,” he said to the tourists in the crowd. “She runs the Summerbrook Inn and likes it when I sing ‘Peaceful Easy Feeling,’ which I think I’ll do right now. This is for you, Meg.”

  Life went on. And when she thought of the loves she’d lost, it came with a wistfulness but also a sense of peace. She’d been bold enough to go after things she’d wanted. She’d taken chances. She’d been lucky enough to know what it was to love. And she’d had some amazing sex in the bargain. Maybe she would again. Maybe not. But either way, she had no regrets because she’d stayed true to her heart every step of the way.

  It was the last day of July when she rested in the rose garden, enjoying their color along with the last gasps of the Himalayan lilacs in the distance. She sat in one of the antique metal chairs that had likely been here since Gran’s girlhood, drinking a glass of pink lemonade and sketching out crafting plans for a few old wooden milk crates she’d just bought at a flea market in St. Simon. Catching a glimpse through some foliage of someone coming up the walk, she set her pencil and pad aside to go greet them.

  And she’d just pushed to her feet when Seth appeared beyond the roses. “Hello, darlin’.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE