The Hideaway

by Lauren K. Denton

  Crawford forgot about any work he had to do at The Hideaway, or anywhere else for that matter. We stayed on the beach all afternoon, our only company the occasional skittering sand crab or stilt-legged heron. Only when the sun began to descend did we shake the sand off the drop cloth and make our way back.

  27

  SARA

  JUNE

  The workers were packing up for the day when we arrived back at the house from our trip to the mystery beach. Crawford stayed a bit, going over checklists with the workers and double-checking the position of recessed can lights planned for the kitchen ceiling. After he left, I took a glass of wine out to the garden and sat on Mags’s bench. The evening air felt cool on my skin, which was still a little pink from our afternoon in the sun.

  I’d been there a few minutes when the screen door slammed on the back porch. I turned to see Dot strolling across the yard toward me.

  “Good heavens, from behind you look just like a young Mags sitting out here on this bench.”

  “I do?”

  She nodded. “You sure do. Except that smile on your face is brighter than a lightbulb.” She sat next to me. “I could see it even with your back turned.”

  I bit my lips, trying to wipe away the smile.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You have permission to be happy with that boy. He seems like a good one.”

  I nodded. “I think he is.”

  “Did the two of you have a nice afternoon? You were gone when Glory and I got home.”

  “We took a drive. Have you ever noticed that big map on the wall in the front parlor?”

  “Of course. It’s been there for decades. Why do you ask?”

  “I noticed a hole in it today—a place near Sweet Bay that someone had marked with a thumbtack or something. And there was a little arrow drawn on it, pointing toward the hole.”

  “What in the world? I’ve never noticed that.”

  “I saw it when I was taking the pictures off the wall. Crawford and I drove out to the spot to see what was there. Or at least, I think we were in the right place.”

  “What was there?” she asked.

  “Nothing more than sand, grass, and water. It’s beautiful though. I’d love to know what was so important about that little cove.”

  Cove. The word triggered a memory. Someone else had used that term, but I couldn’t remember who it was.

  “You think it was Mags who marked it?” Dot asked.

  “Maybe,” I said, my mind in high gear. All afternoon, I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that the stretch of beach was more than just empty sand. Something about the seclusion and the barrenness of it felt significant.

  We sat in silence a few moments. I was about to ask Dot again about the postcard I’d found, but she spoke first. Her voice trembled in a way I’d never heard from her.

  “Now that we’re alone, I have something I need to tell you.” She paused before continuing. “I’ve held it in a long time out of respect for Mags, but with her gone, I think I’m the last person around who can tell you the truth.”

  I exhaled. “I have some questions too, but you go first.”

  She smiled. “I told you earlier you reminded me of Mags sitting here on this bench. I came out here one day, a long, long time ago, and found her crying. She wasn’t making a big deal about it, no drama, just big tears making tracks down her face and dripping onto her shirt.”

  “What was she crying about?”

  “Did Mags ever say anything to you about a man named William?”

  My heart started to pound. “No, she didn’t, but there was a note . . .”

  That was it. William was the one who mentioned the cove. It was in the note he wrote to Mags: “in the cove, just as we planned.” I still didn’t know what it meant, but at least it validated my feelings about the place.

  “A note from William?” Dot prompted.

  I nodded. “Pieces of it, at least. It was in a box up in the attic. I found it when I was cleaning. The box was full of all these little mementos. That’s where the postcard from Mags’s mother came from. The note was in pieces, like someone had torn it up, but I put it together as best as I could. There was . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to mention the ring. It felt too sacred. “It was signed, ‘Love, William.’”

  She nodded. “Yes, I do think a lot of love was involved.”

  “Who was he?”

  Dot put her hand on top of mine. Her skin was thin, the back of her hand and her wrist speckled with brown age spots.

  “William was your mother’s father.”

  “No, my grandfather’s name was Robert. You know that. Wasn’t he here when you moved in?”

  “That’s true, Robert was here. But he was not the father of Mags’s baby—of your mom. That was William.”

  I swallowed hard, then shot to my feet. Dot pulled her hand back to her lap, her eyes patient. I walked a few paces away, then turned around. “That’s not possible. I don’t even know this man. Do you? He can’t be Mom’s—my grandfather. It’s impossible.”

  “I know it sounds that way, but it’s true. William and Mags met here after she left Mobile. Things between them escalated quickly, and she got pregnant.”

  “Did Mom know about this?”

  “I don’t think so. I know it sounds bad. I think it was hard for Mags to talk about.”

  “What about Granddaddy? Was she married to him at this point?”

  “Yes, she was. But before you jump to conclusions, you need to know a little about Robert. He was not a faithful husband. Mags didn’t tell me much, but she told me that. He had other women over the years, one in particular. When he went away with this woman and left Mags in Mobile, she decided to leave too. She started a new life here, and William was a big part of it.”

  “So Robert was just her first husband? Did Mags and William ever marry?”

  My head was exploding, but I tried to ask rational questions.

  “No, they didn’t. I was never sure exactly what happened. I moved in after William left and Robert was back. Mags was weeks away from giving birth to your mom. She told me William was the father and he had left. She was heartbroken. At first, she said it was her fault, but I found out her parents had something to do with it. The way they saw it, Robert was a more appropriate husband for a woman of means, like Mags had been.”

  Dot snorted. “Appropriate in the wallet, maybe, but money doesn’t guarantee happiness or loyalty. To my knowledge, Mags and Robert slept in different bedrooms every night he lived here. Robert thought it was a big secret, but we all knew. She may have been willing to allow him back into the house, but not into her bed.”

  “William left even though Mags was pregnant?”

  “He didn’t know. Apparently, he was supposed to come back. Maybe they had some plans that never worked out.”

  “That postcard from Mags’s mother . . . ,” I said.

  “Right. I didn’t want to say too much on the porch with Glory. She and Major moved in well after your mom was born. They don’t know anything about William. I’d never seen that postcard before, but her mother must have been talking about Mags choosing Robert over William. Although I’m not sure it was exactly a choice—her mother was likely the one pulling the strings. It was very important to her that her daughter marry the right last name.”

  Pictures flew through my head like an old movie reel. The photo of Mags at the funeral, her smile blazing, so unlike the photo from the box in the attic with her hat, pearls, and forced smile. The unspoiled sand and beauty of the cove, hidden among the trees and moss, safe from a world of rules and propriety. The little hand-carved house, complete with a porch, fireplace, and bedrooms for children.

  Mags had ended up with a cheating husband over what sounded like an uncomplicated love that had produced my mother and, in a way, me. Why?

  28

  SARA

  JULY

  Once Crawford began making frequent visits after work, I found myself listening for the crunch of
gravel signaling his arrival, his footsteps on the porch, his quiet knock. Each time he came, he stayed a little longer, leaving the house late, the dark night alive with a cacophony of cicadas and crickets.

  He came by one evening with a box of fried chicken in one hand, a six-pack in the other, and a bottle of 409 cleaner tucked under an arm. “I’m here to work. But first, you have to eat dinner with me.”

  I smiled. “Let me run upstairs and get cleaned up first.”

  “Don’t do a thing.”

  I looked down at the dirt-smeared T-shirt and blue jeans I’d found in an upstairs closet. My usual neat ponytail was now a messy bun at the back of my head, curls escaping everywhere.

  He reached over and rubbed a smudge of dirt from my cheek. “You’re kind of sexy right now.”

  I laughed. “And you’re kind of crazy.”

  He took my hand and led me to the kitchen. I put the chicken on paper plates while he searched for a bottle opener.

  “So have you discovered any more mysteries we need to decipher?” He rummaged in a drawer of kitchen utensils. “Another old map, maybe a hidden door?”

  I poked him with a plastic fork. “Very funny.”

  Balancing our plates and beer bottles, we walked down the back steps toward the dock.

  “Actually I have found out a little more about Mags,” I said, unable to keep quiet about it.

  “Really? Fill me in.”

  We settled on the dock with our makeshift picnic. Crawford took a sip of his beer and looked at me expectantly.

  How much should I tell him? Would he be interested in the life of my eccentric grandmother? What I’d found out had the potential to change the foundation of my entire world, but to anyone else, it would probably just be stories of an old lady’s life.

  I hesitated. “We can talk about it later. Let’s enjoy our dinner first.”

  “No, tell me.” He leaned toward me. “I want to know.”

  Back in New Orleans, Mitch’s eyes would glaze over anytime I tried to talk about something deeper than city politics or the New Orleans Saints. His hands would fumble in his pockets until he found his phone and pulled it out, at which point he’d relax. “Go on,” he’d say, his fingers busy tapping on the screen. “I’m listening.”

  But Crawford kept his eyes on me. He seemed sturdy enough to take on the murky waters of my life without buckling, and I wanted to let him in, to push open that iron door in my heart that Allyn always bugged me about. So I told him everything I knew—about the Mags I’d known my whole life and how I’d gotten her wrong all those years.

  He shook his head when I finished. “That’s a lot to take in.”

  I picked at the cold chicken on my plate. “I know. All I ever knew about the man I thought was my grandfather was that he died of a heart attack. I wish I could ask her about everything. She was a lot tougher than I ever knew.”

  “Do you think things would have been different if you’d known this part of her life all along?”

  I’d already asked myself the same thing. If I’d known the Mags who had the courage to leave her home and a bad husband to search for something better, who had such a deep capacity for love and heartache, would my life have been different? Would I have still left? Or would I have stuck close by her side to absorb that rebellious iron will and courageous strength?

  When we finished our chicken, Crawford ran back up to the house to see if Bert had left any pie on the counter. He returned a few minutes later with half a cheesecake on a silver pie plate. “It’s not chocolate, but it’ll do.”

  While we finished the cheesecake, I told him about Clark and the Coke can incident in the backyard and the short period in middle school when I wanted to be a rock-and-roll singer.

  “You can sing?” he asked.

  “Not a bit. I just thought Eddie Vedder was sexy. I figured if I wanted to snag a guy like that, I needed to sing in a band.”

  “Did you wear plaid and stop washing your hair?”

  I laughed. “Well, I didn’t go that far. I had too much polite Southern girl in me to go full-grunge. Plaid didn’t look good on me anyway.”

  “While you were singing to Pearl Jam, I was the biggest Garth Brooks fan in Tennessee.”

  “No!” I laughed.

  “Oh yes. I was proud of my ‘Thunder Rolls’ concert shirt. I wore it until it fell apart and my mom threw it away.”

  “Probably best that we didn’t meet back then.”

  “We would have been oil and water.” He sat back in his seat and propped his long legs on the railing at the edge of the dock.

  “So you have a hidden love for Garth Brooks and your business partners include a slobbery dog and a fisherman.”

  “And a bad fisherman at that.”

  “Tell me something else,” I said. “You mentioned that Charlie took over for you at work for a little while. What happened back then?”

  I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know.

  He sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. I worried I’d pressed too much, but when he turned to look at me, his face was calm.

  “My dad died, for one. He’d been sick for a while, so it wasn’t a surprise, although that didn’t make it much easier. Soon after, my girlfriend left me. That one was a surprise. We’d been serious, but she found some other guy—actually found him before she left me. Those two events back-to-back were hard to handle. Charlie stepped in while I pulled myself back together.”

  He balled up his napkin and pushed it down into the neck of his empty beer bottle. “That was two years ago, and I haven’t dated anyone since. I’ve kept myself busy with clients and making some furniture here and there. Things have been good. But the day you came into my office, you sort of kicked things into gear for me. I couldn’t get you off my mind. I realized I hadn’t thought about that old girlfriend in ages, and the old wound doesn’t hurt anymore.” He let out a small laugh. “Something about you makes me want to spill my secrets.” He leaned back in his chair and turned to me. “What about you though?”

  “Me?”

  “Look at you. You must have a trail of broken hearts in your wake.”

  “Nah. I’m too busy to break hearts.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “I’m at the shop all day and usually don’t leave until at least eight. If I have a client appointment at the end of the day, that pushes me getting home even later.” I wasn’t giving the best impression of myself: a workaholic with no time for anything but battered furniture and wealthy patrons. Crawford owned his own business too, so I couldn’t use that as an excuse.

  “What about now? Am I taking you away from anyone?”

  I shook my head. Mitch and all his inconsistencies and indifference didn’t count next to Crawford, the first man who’d made me feel anything in so long.

  “I would have figured you’d have all the single men in New Orleans lined up at your door.”

  “Allyn would love that. If it were up to him, I’d go on dates every night of the week. But the last thing I want to do at the end of a long day is go to some noisy bar for a first date with someone I’ll probably never see again.”

  “Good thing this isn’t some noisy first date,” he said.

  “Yes, very good thing.” I leaned over and rested my cheek against his shoulder. I breathed in. The scent of the water was always the same. I imagined Mags and William on this same dock, planning for a future that never came to be.

  “You know, you’re different from the girl who walked into our office and wiped dog slobber off her fancy clothes.”

  I picked at a string on my cutoffs and shrugged.

  “Now look at you. You’re covered in dust and dirt, and you have fried chicken grease on your fingers.”

  I looked down at my hands, my last manicure a distant memory. “I bet Mags would be proud.”

  Crawford was right. I was a different person here. I liked having bare feet most of the time. I didn’t mind wearing clothes I’d picked up from the five-and-ten store in
town. I had no use for my suitcase of silk tops and skinny pants, and I hadn’t pulled out my flat iron in weeks. I missed the shop and Allyn, but I was getting used to being back in Sweet Bay.

  When we thought we saw a dolphin fin cut through the water, we moved to the end of the dock and sat on the edge to get a closer look. The wooden boards were still warm from the day’s heat. After a moment, I looked over at the man sitting next to me. Moonlight trickled across the water and grazed his cheek. His shoulder rubbed against mine as we dangled our legs over the edge of the dock. When I arrived in Sweet Bay, I was counting the minutes until I could leave. Now, the leaving part wouldn’t be so easy. We’d both avoided talking about what would happen when the house was complete and I had to get back to my real life in New Orleans. Maybe now it was time.

  “As fast as your workers are going, the house will be finished soon,” I said.

  “And . . .” He waited for me to continue.

  “If we try to pursue this, we’ll be stuck with a long-distance thing we haven’t even figured out and too many hours spent on I-10 wading through coastal Mississippi.” I hated the words even as they left my mouth.

  Crawford raised his eyebrows and pushed my hair back from my face.

  I looked down. “I could just save you the trouble now.”

  “Trouble of what?”

  “Of leaving later. Of finding out that the driving back and forth isn’t worth it. That I’m too busy, too remote, too attached to my work.” I’d heard all the lines before.

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  He took my chin and turned my face toward him. “It won’t happen because you won’t be too busy. Not for this. And I won’t be either. If making the drive is the way I get to see you, I’ll do it. I spend a lot of time in the truck anyway. Might as well make it worth my while. And as for pursuing this ‘thing,’ we’ve passed the point of choosing not to pursue it, don’t you think?”