A woman walking around the side of the house paused and backed up a few steps. She cocked her head and stared at the porch, then turned to me. “Did you do that?”
I nodded.
“Hmm. Not bad.”
Over the span of a few weeks, William carved a house for me—intricately detailed, but small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. He presented it to me at the cove on a blessedly warm Saturday. He pulled me away from dinner preparations that afternoon, saying he needed to show me something. I’d been chopping peppers and onions for pasta. I wiped my hands on my apron and followed him, thinking we were headed to his workshop. Instead, he led me to his truck and opened the passenger door.
“I can’t leave right now—the pasta . . .”
“Yes, you can. Starla can take care of it. This is important.”
I shook my head, frustrated with his spontaneity, but good Lord, he was handsome and so earnest. I abandoned the dinner and climbed into his rusty old truck.
At the cove he took my hand and led me to the water’s edge. “I’m going to build a house in this cove one day. Just for us.” He held the delicate carving out to me. “Hold on to this for now, and our real house will come.”
“Is this your way of proposing to me?” I turned the house over in my hands, trying to cover my smile with a frown.
“No, when I propose, you’ll know. This is just my way of saying, hang on, there’s more to me than what you see. I can give you more than sawdust-covered hands and an old truck that won’t even play the radio for you. I can’t build it right now—it might not even be soon—but one day, I will.”
“Right now, you’re enough for me. Just you.”
His eyes searched me, as if trying to decipher something written on my face. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because he smiled and retrieved a camera from the bag he’d brought with him. I held my hand up, but he snapped a picture anyway.
“What was that?” I asked as he placed the camera back in his bag.
“Just want to remember this day. Come on,” he said and began to remove his pants.
“What are you doing?” I laughed and turned away.
“What are you doing? I’m going swimming.”
William built other things for me—a sideboard buffet for the dining room, several small occasional tables, and a corner armoire with glass doors to hold dishes. On each of these pieces, just out of sight so no one noticed but me, he carved an old skeleton key. It became his trademark, and he carved it into each piece he made, even the ones he sold to other people.
My favorite piece was a simple cedar bench with practical, sturdy legs and a coat of moss-green paint. I’d started a vegetable garden in a sunny patch of grass next to the house, so he placed the bench there where I could keep an eye on things as they grew. We often went out to the garden together after dinner and sat on the bench while the sun went down, listening to the late-day sounds around the house. I imagined us sitting on that bench at the end of the day for the rest of our lives, listening, watching, loving.
As life with William was smooth and easy, the situation at the house was deteriorating. I didn’t know just how poor The Hideaway’s finances were until I spent some time in Mrs. DeBerry’s account book. It was a mess, but even I could see that she’d fallen behind on house payments the last several months. The bank had sent two letters, the second less friendly than the first. The men in suits must have come after Mrs. DeBerry ignored the letters. With only a couple hundred dollars left in the account at First Coastal Bank and not much coming in from the “guests,” it wouldn’t be long before we had no money to keep the lights on, much less satisfy the bank.
I still had the check Daddy gave me the day I left home, but I hadn’t even looked at it—it was buried in the pocket of my suitcase, along with my wedding ring and pearl necklace. In a way, that check was tied to Robert, and until now, I’d wanted nothing to do with it. I’d planned to save it until it was really needed. Now, it was. With the possibility of losing The Hideaway right in front of me, it made the most sense to use that money to pay down what Mrs. DeBerry owed to the bank. When I cashed the check at First Coastal and asked to deposit the money into the account to pay the house payments, the teller smiled.
“I don’t know where you got the money, but I’m glad for it. I would have hated to see that lovely house shuttered. It seems like a nice place.”
I smiled back. “It is.”
I held a meeting one afternoon—a family gathering of those living in the house at the time. I stuck notes under everyone’s doors, asking them to meet me in the parlor at 4:00 p.m. sharp. I wanted the note to express authority and the gravity of the situation.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming,” I said, once they all settled down on chairs and couches. I willed my voice to be strong. “As you know, Mrs. DeBerry is gone and she has left The Hideaway with me. You all have an invitation to stay on as guests in the house as long as you like, but I need you to be able to pay somehow.”
Most answered me with grumbles and whispers.
“We had an understanding,” someone piped up. “With Mrs. D.”
“It wasn’t exactly an understanding from what she told me. She needed the money, but she didn’t have the heart to ask. Now, I need your money, and I’m asking you to pay. Before you all get mad, I understand your professions as artists dictate that your financial . . . statuses may not be steady. I get that. But I need you to pay something. Get a part-time job, find new galleries to show your work, whatever. The bottom line is room and board can no longer be free. We’ll all have to pull our weight here or we’ll sink. As it is, we’re behind on several bills, and sinking may not be far behind. This house is all we have right now. We need it to work.”
I took a deep breath, expecting an onslaught of angry voices or overturned easels. Instead, there was silence.
“I just booked a show at Peterson’s Gallery next month,” said Daisy. “They asked for seven paintings—it’ll be my biggest show yet.”
“I’ve been hired to teach yoga at a studio in Fairhope twice a week,” said Starla.
“I’m working on two armoires for Tom Grimmerson,” came William’s smooth voice. “He stopped by last week and asked to see what I was working on.”
I scanned the room until my eyes found him leaning against the door frame in the entryway. He wore a red work shirt and scuffed boots. A thin coat of sawdust covered the front of his pants, and he smiled that familiar, slow smile I’d come to love. My body told me to cross the room in one stride and bury my face in his neck. I smiled my thanks.
“He has a friend who may be interested in some of my work too,” he said, as if just to me, although everyone in the room watched us. “Good things are coming.”
I kept my gaze on him as the room buzzed with talk of upcoming shows and income possibilities.
This could work. But my thought wasn’t just about the house. It was William, me, a new life. All of it. Good things were coming, indeed.
Then Daddy showed up.
16
SARA
MAY
The next morning, after breakfast and a quick shower, I pulled the string on the bare bulb hanging in the center of the attic ceiling. It didn’t illuminate much, but sunlight trickled in from the eaves on each end of the house. It was a bright day, and the light caught the dust motes my feet stirred up.
I’d decided to start at the top and go down. I had no idea what mementos and clutter previous guests had stored in the attic over the years, but I suspected it would be full to overflowing, much like the rest of the house.
Taking my first look around, I wasn’t far off. One end of the attic housed furniture jumbled together—it was dark under the low ceiling, but I could make out the shape of a few small tables and a bench that used to sit in the dining room along one wall. The back of a small chair caught my eye. When I crept closer, I recognized the little red rocking chair I’d been so proud of as a child. I’d gone with Mags to a yard sale and be
gged her to buy me the broken-down chair—painted an ugly, faded yellow and missing one armrest. I knew I could make it look better.
We hauled it home, and I went after it with sandpaper, wood glue, and paint. I even fashioned a cushioned bottom out of some old batting I found in Glory’s quilting box and a few squares of leftover fabric printed with smiling cats. I ran my hand over the dusty cotton and wood. My first restoration job. I couldn’t believe Mags still had it.
Bags and boxes littered the rest of the attic, along with a few broken suitcases, an easy chair missing its bottom cushion, and an artificial Christmas tree.
I peered in a few of the boxes—musty clothes, discarded kitchen items, a few ratty teddy bears. Goodwill wouldn’t even take this stuff. I opened the trash bag I’d brought with me and tossed in items no one would miss.
When the bag was bulging, I dragged it across the floor to the ladder. As I backed down the narrow steps, I noticed a box I hadn’t seen earlier. It was pushed so far under the eaves, I could barely see it, but just enough light bounced off it that I could make out a keyhole at the top. I paused with my feet on the ladder, then climbed back up and pulled the box farther into the light.
Dull green metal, the box was unremarkable except for the keyhole. I remembered the envelope Mags left for me, the small key falling into my hand, weightless. I had yet to come across anything in the house with a hole small enough to fit it. I scrambled down the ladder to the blue room and retrieved it.
Back in the attic, I crouched down and slid the key into the hole and turned it. The lid popped open. Inside were several small photo books, a tiny house carved out of wood, yellowed newspaper clippings, and a few loose photographs. Wood chips, still smelling faintly of cedar, littered the bottom of the box.
I paused, hands on either side of the box. It was for me, right? Mags left me the key, and it fit into the lock perfectly. The lid had snapped open willingly. This had to be something she wanted me to see, to have.
I reached in and pulled out the black-and-white photo sitting on top. It was unmistakably Mags, but not the Mags I’d grown up with. Her tiny frame, light eyes, and sharp cheekbones were the same. And her hair—the humidity must have been high, because the edges were beginning to frizz. That was the Mags I knew, but the similarity ended there. This young, unfamiliar Mags wore a shimmery cocktail dress with a rounded neckline, narrow belted waist, and full skirt. A strand of pearls adorned her neck and she wore large pearls in her ears. Her hair, the part that hadn’t frizzed, was rolled into gentle waves peeking out from under a white pillbox hat. Lacy white gloves covered her hands, and she carried a small purse with a silver clasp. On her face was just the barest hint of a prim smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes.
The date stamped along the edge of the photo was 1957.
I’d been in Mags’s closet before—nothing in there even came close to resembling this dress. A dainty and demure Mags? Not a chance. Who was this woman?
The carved house was the length of my hand. It had four rooms, a porch across the front, and a chimney on top. Whoever carved it had exceptional skill with a knife and an obvious love of such fine work. I turned it over in my hands, examining each side. The underside bore the rough engraving of a skeleton key.
The rest of the items in the box begged to be picked up and examined, but laughter from downstairs floated up into the attic. My watch showed it was after nine, and Crawford had said he’d be here at nine on the dot. I placed the wooden house carefully back in with everything else. That’s when I saw the blue velvet box. I pulled it out and gently pried the box open.
Inside, nestled in soft white cotton, lay an exquisite diamond ring. Beautiful not for its cut or size, but in its simplicity. It was breathtaking, perhaps especially because it shone in such opposition to my grandmother’s disdain for anything having to do with money or luxury.
Underneath the box was an envelope, the seal on the back jagged as if it had been ripped open. I worked my fingers inside. Instead of finding something whole, my fingers brushed small pieces of paper. I hesitated, then turned the envelope over and poured it all out into my hand.
The bits of paper were torn, with rough edges and angry rips. The pen had faded but words written in a steady, sure hand were still legible: Maggie, discomfort, your finger, cove. Seen together, maybe they would have meant something, but in my quick scan of the words in the dim light, they meant nothing. The last bit of paper stopped me though.
Love, William
My grandfather’s name had been Robert.
The words from Mags’s headstone floated back to me: “You hold the key to my heart.”
William? Who are you?
My heart thumped and a bead of sweat trickled down the center of my chest. I carefully slid the bits back into the envelope, then pulled the ring from its home in the box and held it in my palm. I had no way of knowing how long it had been tucked away in the attic, but it sparkled as if it had been cleaned just yesterday.
After glancing at my watch again, I reluctantly put the ring back in its place. I closed the lid on the box and climbed down out of the attic. I’d come back as soon as I could to retrieve the treasures.
When I reached the first floor, I stopped to brush dust off my skirt and pull down my shirtsleeves I’d rolled up. I gathered my hair—still damp from the shower and starting to curl—into a neat bun, took a deep breath, then followed the voices into the dining room.
Crawford sat at the table with Bert, slices of chocolate pie in front of them despite the early hour. They were laughing like old friends. I hesitated at the doorway, not sure how to break up their camaraderie and still trying to slow my hammering heart. Bert noticed me first.
“There you are. Come on in and have some pie. My friend here says it’s his favorite.”
“It’s true. Chocolate pie makes me lose all rational thought,” Crawford said with a smile. He forked the last bite into his mouth and dropped his napkin on his plate. “Thanks for the treat. I’d love to talk some more, but I imagine Sara is ready for me to get to work.”
“You two have fun.” Bert’s smile dimpled his cheeks. He picked up their plates and forks and moved toward the kitchen sink. “Let me know if you need anything while you’re poking around.”
“Looks like y’all hit it off,” I said to Crawford once we were out of earshot.
“I can’t turn down pie. And he was so eager for me to have some.”
“It’s the funeral food. He tries to force it on whoever happens to walk into the kitchen.” My voice was casual, belying none of the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Nervousness was rare for me in a professional situation, and I blamed it on my findings in the attic. Even still, something about being near Crawford made me feel flustered.
He laughed as he walked into the hallway, his hand barely brushing mine on his way past. “Why don’t you show me around?”
We spent the next hour scrutinizing each room of the house. He made notes in a small notebook as I outlined my ideas. Since the funeral, I’d formed a clearer picture of the new Hideaway. Mags said I could do whatever I wanted with it, and after Allyn assured me everything at the shop would go on without a hitch, I’d begun to enjoy the feeling of freedom—both the time away from my hectic work schedule and the anticipation of diving into a new project.
The house had six rooms and a kitchen on the first floor, each room separated by walls to create choppy, awkward spaces. I wanted fewer walls, more open areas, and more light—both in color palette and in natural light flowing in from the tall windows on the south and east sides of the house.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were spacious but dated and plain—fine for Mags and her friends, but not for a more modern B and B. With only three bathrooms, guests—the few who ever came—had no privacy. I wanted the rooms to be luxurious, each with its own private bath and cozy dining space. A small table, a couple of chairs, a microwave, and a mini fridge would appeal to out-of-towners coming for a relaxing stay.
“How
I’ll get those out-of-towners to come, I have no idea,” I said as we descended the stairs. “My first point of business is to get the house ready for them, then I’ll figure out the rest. Or if I end up selling it, someone else can figure it out.”
Crawford was quiet as we walked out onto the back porch. I opened the screen door to head into the yard, but he didn’t follow. I turned and saw he was still standing in the doorway.
“You know, I see a lot of houses in the work I do,” he said. “A lot of old houses. I’m not going to say I’m jaded, but I’m also not often blown away by what I see. This one is different though. For one thing, look at these floors.” He gestured down the wide center hallway. “These are heart pine planks. They probably came from a single tree. Cut, planed, and sanded by hand. No one makes houses like this anymore.”
Charlie was right. Old houses were Crawford’s passion. I could see it in the way he stared down the hallway, the way he ran his hand up and down the time-smoothed door frame.
“Even if you do decide to sell, at least you’re not tearing it down. A lot of people buy property down here on the water just for the sunset views. They tear down whatever house sits on the land, often before they’ve even walked through it, and then build an Italian villa in its place. I get it—modern conveniences and all that—but there’s something to be said for the character a century of life can bring to a house.”
“I’m not much for new.” I sat on a wicker chair and tucked my legs under me.
“Right.”
I knew what he was thinking. My trendy silk blouse, slim skirt, and J. Crew ballet flats hardly screamed vintage charm. “I’m serious. Most of what I work with every day is old.”
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