“Oh, come on now.” I looked up at the waiter who appeared at just the right moment, providing distraction from Crawford’s compliments.
We placed drink and appetizer orders and sat back to watch the sun dipping toward the horizon. On the other side of the deck, a man with a ponytail and dark sunglasses set up his guitar and a couple of speakers. Around us, couples and small groups filled the tables, as if everyone in Sweet Bay recognized the perfection of this South Alabama evening.
With fried crab claws and cocktail sauce on the table in front of us, we dug into both the food and typical first-date chitchat. Instead of boring, it was comfortable, fun even—a stark contrast to most of the first dates I’d been on with lawyers and businessmen in New Orleans. We talked about our childhoods and professional lives, dream vacations and things we’d do for a million dollars. I told him about Allyn and asked him about his partnership with Charlie.
“I knew Charlie in college. He was always the guy drinking too much at parties and ripping his shirt off at football games. You can see it, can’t you?” Crawford said when I laughed. “We ran into each other down here a few years after we graduated. I had a lot of jobs going on at once, and I needed someone to man the office while I was out on-site. I hired him just hoping he wouldn’t burn the place down, but he’s been great.”
He looked down at the table for a second. “He took over for me when I needed to bow out for a little bit. He’s a true friend, and I don’t take that lightly. He’d have to mess up pretty badly for me to let him go. Even then, I don’t think I could do it.”
“He must have really saved you.”
He nodded but didn’t offer any more, so I didn’t ask.
“Tell me about your parents,” I said. “You said they worked on your house a lot while you were growing up.”
He smiled. “They were DIYers in the truest sense of the word. They never wanted to buy anything they could grow, build, or create on their own. It was annoying as a kid and embarrassing as a teenager, but now I appreciate it. They made me want to do things for myself rather than take the easy way out.”
“I’m guessing it’d be easier to build something from scratch on an empty piece of property rather than take something crumbling to pieces and try to turn it into a gem.”
“Exactly. And there’s nothing wrong with building new houses. We do it all the time. But I’d much rather take a house that already has a life and turn it into something beautiful. You encounter all kinds of problems you don’t have to deal with when you build new, but I get a lot more satisfaction at the end when I see something solid and real where before there had only been hope.”
Just as the waiter asked if we wanted to try dessert, a couple came up to our table. The man put his hand on Crawford’s shoulder. Crawford looked up.
“Peter, Janet,” he said, standing up. “Good to see both of you.”
“You are a lifesaver.” Peter shook Crawford’s hand. “In fact, it’s possible your little redo of our kitchen saved our marriage.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Crawford said.
“Oh yes,” Peter said. “My wife is wonderful, but even she won’t argue that she can be a handful at times.”
“It’s true,” Janet said. “And he’s right—our kitchen saved our marriage. Now I can fix my coffee and he can make his green-tofu-whatever smoothies, and we’re not bumping into each other the whole time. Crisis averted, thanks to you.”
While they caught up, I finished my wine and watched Crawford. He conversed easily with Peter and Janet as he reenacted having to calm their dog down when he arrived at their house early one morning. Peter clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him for not shooting the dog when it burst out of the gate. Crawford laughed.
Back in New Orleans, Mitch was always “on.” He was loud and overconfident in front of other people and never wanted to miss an opportunity to impress. Crawford put everyone—even dogs—at ease. Being with him was as easy as the tide going out.
Crawford turned to me and introduced me to his friends. Peter shook my hand while Janet eyed me up and down. “You’ve done well for yourself, young man,” Janet said to Crawford. “She’s very pretty.”
I swallowed and fumbled for a smile, but Crawford defused my embarrassment.
“She is—and she’s also a great client. She told me exactly what she wanted on the redo of her house. She practically did all the work before she even hired me. All I had to do was get the guys in and follow her orders.”
Peter laughed. “Sounds like she’d be a good one to keep around.” He winked at Crawford.
Crawford laughed and kept his gaze on Peter, but he wrapped his warm hand around mine and squeezed it gently.
“Now if you’ll excuse us”—Janet pulled on Peter’s arm—“my husband promised his handful of a wife a dance before we leave. Crawford, the next one is yours.” She winked at him as they wound through the tables to the open corner of the patio where others had gathered to dance. The man with the guitar had just started a slowed-down version of James Taylor’s “Country Road.”
“How about it?” Crawford held out his hand. He was confident in his own way, easy in his khakis and untucked button-down. I put my hand in his, and we found an open space away from the others. He put his other hand on my back and we began to move. The couples dancing, the waiters and tables, even the music all receded. It was only Crawford and me, the water behind us, and the sky, now dark except for a faint orange glow just over the horizon.
21
MAGS
MAY 1960
I didn’t say anything to William that day about Daddy showing up. He knew me well enough to know something was wrong, but thankfully, he didn’t press. The next day, I couldn’t keep it from him any longer. I didn’t like deceiving him, especially when it had the potential to destroy all the plans we’d made, however casual they may have been.
“William?” I sat in his workshop with him as he brushed long strokes of stain onto the armoire for Mr. Grimmerson. The earthy scent of newly cut boards tempered the sharp tang of turpentine in the air.
“Hmm?” He was concentrating on his work—eyebrows furrowed, brush moving evenly up and down the wood.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
His hands went still, then he grabbed a ragged bandanna he used as a hand towel and wiped the stain off his fingers. He knelt on the floor in front of me where I sat. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to hear the words.”
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t have spoken if he’d asked me to.
“Let’s just discuss it later, okay?” He kissed me on the lips, then stood and went back to his work.
He didn’t show up for dinner that night or later when everyone gathered for a game of backgammon in the living room. I kept an eye on the door all night, not wanting to miss his entrance, but he never showed up.
I awoke at some dark hour of the night to William slipping into my bed and tucking his arms around me. I repositioned, fitting my body snugly against his. He touched my hair, smoothed it, tucked it behind my ear. He raised up on one elbow and traced the side of my face with a finger, then my neck, then my collarbone. He leaned down, kissed me on the cheek, and lay back down behind me. A breeze kicked up the curtain at the window, and a touch of fresh air caressed my face.
The next morning, he was gone. In his place on the bed next to me was an envelope with a note inside.
My dearest Maggie. I’m leaving now to save you the discomfort of having to explain yourself to me. Or maybe it’s to keep from hearing you say the words. But you are a good woman and this is the right choice for now. I’m not worried—I know our time will come. When it does, I hope you’ll wear this proudly on your finger. For then, you will be mine and I will be yours. We’ll spend our years in the cove, just as we planned.
Love,
William
Next to the note was a small blue box. I cracked it open. Inside was a perfect ring. A small, solitary, sparkling diamond on a simple
gold band. I thought of the ring Robert had given me when he proposed: six diamonds clustered busily together on a gold filigree band. The comparison between the two, and the obvious perfection of the one that came from the man who understood the real me, would have been laughable had the moment not been so heartbreaking.
I threw the covers off and raced downstairs, still in my pajamas. Voices in the kitchen grew quiet as I hurried down the hall in my bare feet and slammed open the screen door on the porch. I crossed the grass to his workshop and found what I already suspected. All the wood was gone, all the tools. The only thing left in the room was an empty sandpaper box.
Back in the house, I bumped into Daisy. She’d been watching me from the back porch.
“I was up early this morning,” she said. “He was packing his truck before the sun came up. I didn’t ask where he was going. I assumed you’d know.”
I shook my head and turned toward the stairs. Back in my room, I crawled under the covers, my feet still wet from the grass. I laid my head on his pillow with his note clutched in my hands, trying to detect any of his scent. I stayed there the rest of the day.
22
SARA
JUNE
Crawford stopped by frequently after that first date, adding a sense of humor and order to the blur of paint fumes, trash bags, and plastic sheeting in the house. One afternoon, he showed up with the plumber to check on the sewer line in the backyard. When he parked his truck in the driveway, I was on the front porch in a rocking chair going through some of Mags’s mail, trying to decide what was junk and what was important.
“Do you have big plans for the morning?” Crawford asked, climbing the porch steps. When he got to the top, he walked over and squeezed my knee.
“Just deciding whether to go on a Caribbean Disney cruise or order this turbocharged commercial-grade juicer.” I held up two brochures from the stack of mail on my lap.
He laughed. “Mickey Mouse or spinach juice. That’s a tough call. Think I could pull you away from all this for a bit?”
“I think I could be convinced.”
“I need to go over a couple of things inside, but my next appointment isn’t until three. I could show you what I’ve been working on in my shop. If you’re still interested.”
“I’d love to.”
“Great,” he said, exhaling.
While he finished up in the house, I retreated to the blue room to find something to wear. When I’d left New Orleans two months before, I planned to spend a week in Sweet Bay and as such had packed mostly business casual clothes, appropriate for the funeral and meeting with the lawyer. I’d spent the last few weeks in running shorts and old fraternity T-shirts I’d found in the closet in my bedroom—not ideal attire for spending the day with someone I found increasingly charming.
I miraculously unearthed a clean pair of black capris and paired them with a thin sleeveless top. My only options for shoes were dressy sandals or heels. I opted for the black wedge flip-flops I found in the bottom of my closet. I twisted my curls up in a clip to ward off the humidity and hoped for the best.
Downstairs, Crawford was just finishing up. When I got to the bottom of the stairs, he looked up from the clipboard he and the electrician were poring over. He smiled and held up one finger. I nodded and slipped out to the front porch. He came out a few minutes later and gave a low whistle. “Quite a change from a few minutes ago.”
“What? With the house?”
He laughed. “No, you. You look great. Way too nice for a ride in my work truck.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse.”
He escorted me to the truck and opened my door. “After you.”
“My workshop’s not much,” he said on the way. “It’s really a glorified garage. And not that glorified, actually. But it gives me the space I need to work off some energy.”
“When I started refinishing furniture, I did it on the sidewalk in front of my apartment with a stack of old newspapers and a can of spray paint.”
“I bet your work space is a little more upscale now though.”
“Well, I don’t work on the sidewalk anymore, but it’s still not fancy. I have a small space at the back of my shop, but I still pull pieces out into the courtyard sometimes when I need more room to work.”
“I’d love to see your shop sometime,” he said. “And have a guided tour of New Orleans.”
He pulled off the highway at the sign for Coastal Contractors. The driveway was empty, and inside, the office was quiet. In the small kitchen area, Crawford pulled a small bone from a box under the sink. “For Popcorn.”
Opening the back door, he whistled a quick tune and the same black fur and wet tongue flew at us from the left. Crawford got down on a knee and scratched under the dog’s chin, then tossed the bone out into the yard. Popcorn leaped on it, wagging her tail. By the time we descended the creaky stairs leading down to the yard, Popcorn had settled in the grass, happily gnawing away. I leaned down and smoothed my hand down her soft head.
“Not much for dogs, right?” Crawford asked.
“They’re fine as long as they’re not directing their wet mouth at me.” I massaged Popcorn’s ears and snout, her fur soft as velvet. I stood and Crawford gestured to his shed. We crossed the small yard, and he pulled the door open for me.
Inside, the still air was laced with the scent of turpentine and fresh wood. “This smell is so familiar. When I was younger, there was an old shed off to the side of The Hideaway. It always smelled like this.”
I walked to the other side of the workshop, trailing my fingers across the top of his worktable. A couple of old doors were propped up along one wall and various electric saws and routers lined another. A bookshelf in the corner held how-to books mixed with well-worn paperbacks. He reached over and pulled a window open, allowing salt-scented air to trickle in.
He pointed out some of his unfinished work, then took me out to the dock and showed me the boathouse he was building for Charlie. The morning had been overcast, but the clouds were just beginning to part, letting bright sunshine peek through the haze. It was quiet on the dock, no sounds but the water lapping at the pilings and a sailboat at a neighboring dock creaking on its lines.
When his cell rang, it cut through the quiet and startled us both. He checked the screen and groaned. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this. I’ll be quick.”
I nodded and walked to the end of the dock where a hammock was strung up under a covered section. I kicked my shoes off and leaned back onto the thick strings, listening to Crawford’s side of the conversation—something about not being able to move a garage to the other side of a house once it was already framed out. Before long, the gentle movement of the water against the pilings and the call of the gulls overhead lulled me.
I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the box in the attic and its treasures. Not to mention the key engraved on Mags’s headstone and everywhere else. They remained at the edges of my mind, and I pondered the mysteries in every idle moment.
I was sure Dot knew something about the postcard from Mags’s mother, but it was clear she hadn’t wanted to say anything in front of Glory.
What choice had Mags made that so pleased her mother? And could it have anything to do with the words on the headstone?
It seemed the longer I stayed in Sweet Bay—and the more I uncovered of Mags’s life before she came to The Hideaway—the more confused I was.
Soon I heard Crawford’s footsteps approaching. “I’m so sorry. This client calls me every time she opens another issue of Southern Living. If she doesn’t stop changing her mind, her house is going to be a mash-up of every house they’ve featured in the last year.”
“Don’t worry about it. This hammock was about to put me to sleep.”
“Yeah, it’ll do that to you. You look pretty relaxed.”
I repositioned myself so I was sitting up, cradled by the strings under me, and he sat down on the bench opposite the hammock. He slung an arm up over the back of th
e bench and looked out at the water. “Coming from my landlocked hometown, I still get a kick out of living here. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live anywhere I can’t see the bay from my back door.”
I breathed in. “It is special. I’m glad to be back, for however long I’m here.” I surprised myself, but it was true. I was very glad to be right where I was.
We were both quiet a moment before he spoke.
“Tell me more about your grandmother. What was she like?”
I smiled. “She was a character. She was her own woman and didn’t care a thing about what other people thought of her.”
“That must be one of the perks of getting old. Just not caring what people think.”
“I guess so.” I laughed. “Mags had the craziest collection of clothes—things like huge embroidered caftans and floppy hats embellished with flowers she’d picked up at the craft store. But she also had this gorgeous, long mink coat. I never knew where she got it, but it always seemed a little magical to me, like it came from another era. As you know, it rarely gets cold enough in Sweet Bay to actually need something like that, so she’d wear it as a bathrobe instead.”
“She sounds like someone I’d liked to have met,” Crawford said.
I nodded. “People who knew her well—her friends, folks in town—really thought a lot of her, but back when I was young, I just saw her as my strange little grandmother. There was this one . . . incident—it probably won’t sound like much, but at seventeen, it felt like the end of my world.”
“What happened?” Crawford leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I was at a party the summer after I graduated from high school. It was in an empty barn on this guy’s family property outside Sweet Bay. I’d missed my curfew by a mile, but I wasn’t driving and I didn’t want to ask someone to drive me home. It must have been one or two o’clock in the morning, tailgates down, music blaring from every truck, a huge bonfire. I was talking to this guy I’d had a crush on for all of high school when here comes Major’s rusty orange van rumbling down the driveway.”
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