It almost made me mad—that smile that seemed to belittle my fears of linking my future to someone—and somewhere—else. But at the same time, I wanted to cling to that smile, to wrap myself around the unknown and not ask questions.
“And as for this just being a rebound for you,” he continued, “a way to get back at Robert for his lady friend, you’ll have to judge that for yourself. I don’t think it is though. I think this is . . . something else.”
I nodded and he took my hand.
“Let’s not mention Robert again. I don’t want him to be a part of this,” I said.
“Suits me just fine.”
I nestled back down beside him under the blanket. He pulled me closer and kissed me.
“I told you, you were going to fall in love with me,” he said with a grin.
I pushed him away and laughed. “What makes you think I’m in love with you?”
“You are, aren’t you?”
I was a new woman—risky and adventurous. It felt foreign and perfect at the same time.
“I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
9
SARA
APRIL
I pulled down the long gravel driveway in front of The Hideaway and began the slow trek through the trees. When I reached the house, I parked my car under the big oak. Nerves stalled my hand on the car door handle.
My parents’ deaths and the lonely years after had left a wound deep in my heart. Although the wound had healed, it was still tender. I didn’t let myself think of their deaths often—it was too painful, like pressing on a bruise. Thankfully, my scrambling to open Bits and Pieces and make a name for myself in New Orleans occupied almost all my mental energy. Their absence was always present, but most of the time, I was able to keep it tucked under the surface of my life. I was comfortable with that. I could live with that. But here I was, back at the place where it all happened.
When I finally exited my car, I stood in the driveway holding my suitcase and picking rocks out of my open-toed sandals. I heard the crunch of gravel and turned around to see Major’s car slowing to a stop behind me. I waited by the door while the four of them climbed out.
“Go on in,” Major said. “You don’t need to wait for an invitation.”
“I still can’t believe y’all leave the doors unlocked.”
“It’s not New Orleans, honey,” Dot said, before kissing me on the cheek and walking past me into the house.
I took a deep breath before following them in.
Major pulled out my chair at the table before I sat down. Dot and Glory must have done a number on him on the ride over from Mobile. He seemed calm, but I could only imagine the rant he probably unleashed in the car. I glanced around, trying to gauge the tension level, as Bert filled our glasses with iced tea.
“We’re real glad you’re here,” Glory said to me, spooning out a serving of green beans.
I laughed a little, but her calm, delicately lined face told me she was serious. “I thought y’all might fight over who got to kick me out the door first.”
“You’re like a daughter to us,” Glory said. “Kicking you out would never cross our minds. All we can do is look to the future of the house, whatever that may be.”
Four pairs of eyes shifted in my direction. I took a long sip of tea.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Dot said as I set my glass down. “The house belongs to you now, as it should. Mags asked you to take care of this place, and no one could ever argue with her once she got an idea in her head. Regardless of what you decide to do with the house in the end—”
“She’s not going to sell the thing, that’s for sure,” Major’s deep voice burst out. “It needs to stay in family hands.” He shot to his feet, his chair squeaking on the hardwood, and stomped to the other side of the room. So much for him cooling off in the car.
He stood at the window overlooking the driveway for a long moment before he turned back to us. When he did, most of the anger had drained from his face. “I know we don’t deserve the house. Blood’s thicker than water, and all that. But after living here so long and being with Mags every day, I’d say we’re a little more than just water. Now she’s gone and given our house to someone who only visits a couple times a year.” He lifted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He sighed. “I know it’s not our house, but it feels that way.”
“It does feel that way, but Sara grew up in this house,” Dot said. “It’s more hers than ours. Mags let us stay here so long out of the kindness of her heart—and because she loved us. But she’s not forcing us out. She wouldn’t have given the house to Sara if she didn’t trust Sara to make the best decision. I agree with her on this.”
Silence fell in the room as Major shuffled back to his chair and we all started eating. Forks clinked against plates and a breeze from the open window ruffled the curtains.
Dot looked at Bert and tilted her head toward the kitchen. Bert raised his eyebrows and nodded. “I’ll be right back.” A moment later, he returned carrying a bottle of wine and a tray of glasses. “Nothing like a little wine to loosen the lips and calm the nerves, right?”
“I think someone’s lips are already loose enough,” Glory said.
Bert started to laugh but stopped when Major glared at him.
“Okay, let’s all just enjoy our dinner,” Dot said. “We need to speak words of love to each other and celebrate who Mags was, not second-guess her actions. It’s her life, her house, her decision.”
I looked down at my lap and smiled. Dot was Mags’s best friend in the world. It made sense she would echo what Mags had said in her letter to me.
“Everybody agree?”
We all nodded. Glory winked at me from across the table. I smiled back at her. Everyone watched as Bert uncorked the bottle and poured a couple inches into each glass. His calm movements soothed our frayed nerves. One by one, everyone reached over and took a glass, even Major.
I waited until everyone had taken a sip before I spoke. “It means a lot that Mags trusted me with her home. In all of our conversations, she never said anything about leaving the house to me. If she wanted to surprise me, she did it. I have a lot going on with my shop and—”
“Yes, your shop,” Glory said. “Did you see the binder by the couch when you came in? She always kept it in her bedroom, but we brought it out so you could see it. She has every magazine article that has ever mentioned you or Bits and Pieces. She showed that binder to everyone who came through the door. She was so proud of you.”
I always told Mags when a magazine writer or reporter came into the shop with a voice recorder and a notebook, telling me we’d been noticed again by another editor somewhere. Sometimes I worried she’d think I was flaunting my success, but she always celebrated with me. I had no idea she’d gone to the trouble of tracking down the magazines and clipping the articles.
“Sara, you have quite a talent and we”—Dot bored a hole in Major with her eyes—“think you’ll be the perfect person to whip this place into shape. I, for one, am glad for it. A few cans of paint and a hammer or two are just what we need around here.”
From the little I’d seen before dinner, painting and hammering were the least of my concerns. If I decided to sell the house—and living three hours away, did I have another choice?—I’d have to do a lot of work just to get it ready for the market. Talking about selling right now was premature, but finding a good contractor wasn’t.
“I’ll check everything out, put a plan together, and start calling around,” I said. “I’m good at cosmetic updates, but I’m no expert on plumbing, wiring, any of that.”
“Now, don’t get too ahead of yourself, dear,” Dot said. “The house doesn’t need that much work. She’s still a beauty, much like your grandmother. She just needs some spit and polish.”
“We’ll start there and see how it goes,” I said carefully.
“And have you thought of your plans for the house aside from the renovation?” Glory asked.
I knew what she was really asking. “I haven’t thought about much, honestly. It’s been a quick couple of hours.”
“Just give us some warning if you decide to pull the rug out from under us,” Major said.
“Mags specifically asked me to do that. Even if she hadn’t, you know I wouldn’t do that to you.”
With dinner mostly over, Bert stood to get the dessert. “Someone dropped off a hummingbird cake this morning. I’ve been holding myself back all day.”
“So many people have been bringing food by,” Glory said. “Such kindness.”
“I didn’t know Mags had so many friends,” I said.
“Most everyone in Sweet Bay has been helped by Mags at one time or another,” Bert said. “Either that, or their parents were. Anyway, this is what Southern people do, whether they know the deceased or not. You know that.” He set the cake down in the center of the table as if he made it himself.
“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to pass on dessert,” I said. “I think I’ll walk around a little before heading upstairs.”
“You sure you don’t want any? You’re not one of those girls who never lets herself eat sweets, are you?” Bert asked. “If nothing else, that’s what grief is for. You can stuff yourself silly and blame it on the person who died.”
“Bert! That’s terrible,” Dot said.
“I’m just kidding and Sara knows it. But we do have a counter full of cakes and pies in the kitchen. Someone will have to eat it all.”
“I’ll have a slice tomorrow,” I said as I stood.
“Let us know if you need anything,” Dot said. “Your room is all ready, but I may have forgotten something. Feel free to look around, go on down to the dock, whatever you want. The place is yours.”
“Sure is,” Major said under his breath. “She’s got the keys to prove it.”
I spent the next hour walking around the house and yard to get a sense of what a renovation would entail. Of course I’d seen the house each time I’d come back for visits, but I hadn’t taken a hard look at it with a critical eye.
Inside, it was hard to get a sense of the space because most of the rooms were overstuffed with furniture, as if each person who’d moved into the house over the years had added a treasured chair or table to the mix. The resulting hodgepodge of furniture matched neither each other nor the style of the house. A few pieces stuck out though, and for good reason—an oak pie safe with hand-punched tin covering the bottom shelves, an armoire with delicate scrollwork carved into the pine at the top and bottom, and a corner hutch covered in peeling white paint and doors with squares of wavy glass. These had been in the house for as long as I could remember, but before, they’d just been part of the overall chaos of the house. Now, I saw they bore the handmade, vintage charm so many of my customers craved.
The main living room had floor-to-ceiling curtains that, when opened, revealed beautiful windows reaching almost to the ceiling. I tied the curtains back on their hooks and peered through the salt-crusted glass. Past the lawn, the bay stretched out flat and calm. As I turned to cross through the room, a blur of blue on the floor caught my eye. I knelt and ran my fingers across the splotch of what appeared to be blue paint just inside the front door. I scratched at the edge with my fingernail, but the paint was so old it had almost blended in with the wood.
Across the hall from the living room, the kitchen had last seen an update in the 1980s. The countertops and backsplash still boasted the cheery yellow Mags had loved so much. Laminate cabinets with faux-wood trim and ancient appliances rounded out the dated look. Baskets hung everywhere, adding a country feel that must have been Bert’s doing.
Despite this veneer of age, the house had great bones. I couldn’t help but feel a ripple of excitement as I walked the wide center hallway from the front door straight through to the porch in the back. Twelve-foot ceilings, tall windows, hardwood floors, curved staircase—these were the things of a designer’s dream.
I moved outside to the yard. The house had been built with boards salvaged from an old barn in Virginia, or so the story went that I’d heard as a kid. Mags used to tell me if I looked hard enough, I could find places in the wood where goats had rubbed their horns or chickens had pecked, leaving small holes and dings. I never did find those places, but I spent whole afternoons looking for them. Mags probably told me that story just to occupy me while she worked in her garden, but now, as I looked at the façade of the house, it wouldn’t have surprised me if it was true. Most of the wood was pockmarked with holes the diameter of a No. 2 pencil, although they were probably due to industrious carpenter bees, not farm animals.
A thin layer of peeling paint covered the grass at the base of the house. Fungus-green peeked out where the paint had peeled from the weathered wood. Kudzu, that great Southern beast, covered the entire chimney and one upstairs window. On the chimney, crumbly bricks at both the base and top made use of the inside fireplace impossible—or at least dangerous.
Much of what I saw remained exactly as it had been for as long as I could remember. The house had always been a little disheveled, but I was used to it and didn’t question it much. Now, standing in the grass facing the house, I wondered about the general sense of deterioration and neglect that covered the house like a shroud. Mags had let the house slip into disarray for a reason—she’d said so in the letter—but any hint of anger in her had been lost on me. Whatever her reason, my fingers itched for a paint scraper, sheet of sandpaper, or bottle of wood glue.
If I didn’t have a life in New Orleans and a business to get back to, I knew I could make something of The Hideaway. Mags was right. The beauty was there—it just needed someone with a trained eye and good taste to uncover it. But the project would require a much longer duration in Sweet Bay than I had anticipated. What would happen to Bits and Pieces if I stayed away for too long, unable to offer input on items purchased and sold, decorating decisions, and customers’ urgent requests?
Later that night, I sank into bed in the blue room without changing clothes or even washing my face. The crisp sheets were cool against my legs, and a breeze through the open window lifted the curtains. Dot called it the blue room because everything in it was in varying shades of blue—the bedding, curtains, rugs, even the framed prints on the wall. Each of the bedrooms in The Hideaway had its own color scheme—my blue room, the yellow room, the pink room, and a red room that I had always thought was a little creepy.
I bunched up the pillows behind my head and surveyed the room where I spent so many nights as a kid. It still felt familiar despite having spent only a handful of nights here over the last several years. I’d already checked the closet. It still held some of the clothes I hadn’t gotten around to packing up and taking back to New Orleans with me. Earlier, I’d run my fingers across the polo shirts and too-small blue jeans.
Despite making a life for myself elsewhere, I felt like the last eight years in New Orleans hadn’t even happened. Except now I was Sara Jenkins, owner of Bits and Pieces, with a client list as long as my arm. I wore Nanette Lepore and Tory Burch instead of cutoffs and flip-flops. I’d been intentional for nearly a decade, working my butt off to be successful, but back in the blue room, it felt like nothing had changed, like all my hard work had just been “spit and polish.”
Allyn will know what to do. He loved to dole out advice to anyone within earshot whether she asked for it or not. Occasionally, his words of wisdom were too risky (or downright scandalous) for my taste, but underneath the sass, his pointers were always spot-on. Working together for four years, six days a week, eight hours a day gave him the ability to home in on all my insecurities, insufficiencies, and flaws. In a loving way, of course.
Allyn had been with me since the very beginning of Bits and Pieces. He breezed through the door the day before I opened, and all the revelry and cheekiness of New Orleans blew in with him.
“Honey, you better be doing something special here because there are a million and one home décor shops in this city. Wha
t’s your hook?”
I was busy typing on my laptop, trying to get a press release out to New Orleans magazine, when he entered. I’d spent the morning rearranging furniture and dusting in the heat. The AC repair guy was late, and I was sweaty.
“Sorry, we don’t open ’til tomorrow.” I barely looked up from my work.
“You may open tomorrow, but you won’t have any customers with this boring old stuff. You need my stamp on the place.”
My fingers paused on the keyboard and I looked up. “I’m sorry, can I help you? If you’re looking for a job, I’m not hiring yet. And this stuff isn’t boring, it’s tasteful.”
“What’s that you’re working on?” He sat next to me and peered at the screen. The smell of his cologne was thick as cake batter.
“A press release, if you must know. Like I said, we open tomorrow.”
“Who’s the ‘we’ if it’s just you?”
“It’s a figure of speech.” I closed my laptop and stood. I knew enough of New Orleans by then to know he didn’t necessarily mean trouble, but I was still a little wary of this colorful stranger in my shop. The place was full of small items I’d picked up here and there, and he could grab something and run off with it in a heartbeat if he wanted.
“I’m Allyn.” He extended his hand. “With a y.”
“Sara. No h. And the shop isn’t officially open yet, so if you could come back tomorrow . . .” I stood by the front door and gestured through it with my free arm.
“You need me. I can make this place sing.”
“It looks pretty good already, if you ask me.” I glanced through the front room I’d so carefully decorated.
“It needs something. More Southern Gothic flair. I’m your man for the job. Or I can be your woman for the job, whichever you prefer.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Just kidding,” he said. “But seriously, I’m an out-of-work hairdresser waiting for Hollywood to call, and I have time on my hands.” He paused and looked down at his feet. “People used to live in this house, you know. A lot of people. I was one of them, and I know every nook and cranny of the house and the neighborhood. I can help you.”
The Hideaway Page 6