The Hideaway

by Lauren K. Denton

  My last night in the house, I found myself in the garden at dusk. Cicadas serenaded me from their hidden places as I sat on Mags’s bench, my fingers automatically finding the skeleton key on the underside. A light breeze blew in from the south, the sky darkened to a range of purples and pinks, and I let my tears fall without holding them back.

  I stayed in the garden long after darkness fell, covering everything like a warm, thick blanket. Sometime later, the screen door creaked open. “Sara, honey?” Dot asked. “You okay out there?”

  I pulled myself up off the bench and took one last look around. In the dark, everything was a little out of focus. I saw myself as a child, scrambling through the garden, trying to snatch up as many strawberries as I could before Mags came around with her basket. Then as a teenager, sitting next to Mags on the bench, not understanding why she came out here every night in the dark to do nothing but think. Then me at eighteen, packing my suitcases and pulling away from The Hideaway, leaving a smiling, waving Mags behind.

  It seemed everywhere I looked—every surface I touched, every sound I heard—reminded me of how I’d misunderstood perhaps the bravest woman I’d ever known. With my mind and heart full to overflowing, I turned and left the garden.

  The next morning, I stood in the driveway packing and repacking the trunk of my car. It all fit fine, but I kept rearranging items so I wouldn’t have to look Crawford in the face. Everything William had made, and as many other pieces as we could haul, sat in a storage facility in Fairhope. The box containing Mags’s most precious items sat up front on the passenger seat.

  Finally, Crawford put his hand on my arm. “I think it’s fine.” His voice cut through the quiet.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, but the sun shone brightly. I exhaled and leaned my forehead on his chest. He wrapped his arms around my back and his hands went to my hair, lifting the curls off my neck. I raised my face toward him and he pressed his palms to my cheeks.

  “I’ll miss you,” he said.

  I nodded, not trusting my voice to speak.

  “I’m going to give you some time to get back in the swing of things at work. Pull Allyn back in line, get your shop in order, whatever you need to do. I’m not going to bother you, but if you decide you want me there, I’ll hop in the truck that minute. I mean it. I’ll even bring Popcorn if you want.”

  “I don’t need Popcorn.” I leaned my cheek on his chest. “Besides, who would take care of Charlie while you’re gone?”

  “Good point.”

  We were both quiet, then he cleared his throat. “I could say so many things right now, but I’m not going to. You know how I feel about you, and I think I know how you feel about me.”

  “You think?”

  He sighed. “I can’t help but think if you felt the way I do, you wouldn’t be about to drive back to New Orleans.”

  He’s right. What am I doing?

  “But my shop, everything . . .”

  His shoulders tensed.

  I closed my eyes to keep the tears from falling.

  I want my life to be here. I’m more me here than I’ve ever felt before. My life has changed and it’s because of you and Mags and this place. I wanted to say it, but I couldn’t push the words out of my mouth.

  Crawford squeezed my shoulders and I turned to open my car door. I didn’t want to hurry away from him, but I needed the silence of my car to let my emotions go. I could feel another storm coming—it was lodged somewhere in my throat—and I preferred that it happen in private.

  I faced him for one last good-bye. His now-familiar smell of cedar and fresh laundry, and something else vague but distinctly Crawford, filled my senses and muddied my thoughts. His lips were warm and soft, his faint stubble tickling my skin. I put my hand to his face and turned to climb in. He leaned down to the open window.

  “Sara? Please don’t wait too long.”

  43

  SARA

  SEPTEMBER

  Later that day, I opened the door to Bits and Pieces and inhaled the familiar scent of gardenia. I walked through the shop, running my fingers across chair backs, plump down pillows, and dustless tabletops. Allyn had been hard at work.

  I walked behind the counter into our makeshift office. Allyn was hunched over the laptop with his head in his hands. The glow from the screen made his face appear pale and sickly.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Allyn jumped, almost toppling his can of LaCroix on the table. “I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve been trying to figure out all this QuickBooks stuff. Couldn’t you just use a notebook and a calculator?”

  He nudged a chair out to me with the toe of his boot. I sank into it. “So, you’re back,” he said.

  “I’m back.” I laid my head down on the table in front of me. He patted my shoulder, then reached into the mini fridge and pulled out a beer.

  “It’s only two o’clock. Is this what you’ve been doing since I’ve been gone?”

  “Calm down, Boss. It’s not for me.”

  He opened the bottle and handed it to me. I hesitated, then took a long swallow.

  “William?” he asked.

  “He’s back home in Still Pond, swimming in all the memories I dredged up for him. He wants me to come visit him one day.” I smiled. “He still makes furniture, you know.”

  Allyn nodded. “Maybe you can sell some here.”

  I pushed back from the table, but Allyn stopped me with a word. “Crawford?”

  “He’s giving me some time to get settled in. He’s waiting on a phone call telling him I’m ready for a visit.”

  “That’s a phone call that’ll never happen,” he said, partly under his breath.

  “What?”

  “You’ll get back to work here, pick up some new clients, take off on salvaging trips, do what you do—and just not be able to find a free weekend for him to come.”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t think that’s what will happen at all. I—”

  “You and I both know how this will go.” Allyn cut off my babbling. “The same thing happens every time you meet someone.”

  I thought of Mitch and others before him. Mitch had lasted longer than most, but our mutual understanding got us both off the hook when our lives were too busy to connect.

  “Am I talking to Allyn the therapist or Allyn my friend?”

  “They’re one and the same. I just know you better than you know yourself, so I’m obligated to warn you of what’s to happen.”

  We sat quietly until the bell on the door announced a customer and voices filled the room.

  Allyn took me out onto the floor to show me some new mercury glass vases he’d brought in and a line of hand-painted ceramic dishes. They’d already sold out once and he’d had to place a second order. Allyn moved confidently through the shop, picking up a stray feather, brushing off a cushion with his hand.

  “Allyn, this is . . . Thank you for taking care of everything. I appreciate it. And you.”

  “Don’t mention it. Anyway, I didn’t expect you to come back, and I didn’t want to be the reason it went under without the captain at the helm. Bits and Pieces is your baby, but you know how I feel about this place. It feels partly mine too.”

  “You didn’t think I’d come back?”

  He shook his head. “In all our years together, I always thought if you ever left New Orleans, it would be because you finally answered the call from that old house. Once you got settled there, I heard something different in your voice. You didn’t sound like the girl who plans her day out to the last second and chafes when something interrupts the schedule. You sounded happy, and not in an ‘I just scored a table for Mrs. Broussard’ kind of way.”

  “I don’t chafe.” My voice betrayed both my irritation and guilt. “And I guess you don’t know me as well as you think you do. I didn’t stay, did I?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  I sighed and stretched my arms over my head. “You obviously have things under control here. I’m going back to the lof
t to unpack. I’ll see you in the morning?” I turned and headed for the door.

  “Oh, no you don’t. For better or worse, you’re back in New Orleans, and we’re going to celebrate. You’re not sitting home and pouting on your first night back. Let me make a few phone calls. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  I didn’t bother arguing. I knew I wouldn’t win.

  At eight on the dot, Allyn picked me up on his motorcycle. He handed me a helmet and I climbed on, hitching my skirt up to my knees. I felt awkward back in my usual clothes. I thought I’d relish straightening my curls into submission and slipping my feet back into summery wedges, but my toes were cramped, and my work with the flat iron was no match for the thick humidity in the air. I missed the cutoffs, T-shirts, and air-dried hair that had become my staples in Sweet Bay.

  We sped through the Quarter’s tight streets and back alleys until we reached the restaurant. Allyn’s friends waited outside for us, a colorful menagerie of laughter and hugs. On the way in the door, Allyn pulled me to the side. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “Sure. It’ll be fun.”

  “I don’t mean tonight. I’m talking about this—New Orleans. Leaving Sweet Bay. Coming back.”

  “I—yes. I went to Sweet Bay for Mags. She’s gone, the house is gone. This is where I belong.”

  As I said the words, I thought of all I was giving up, but something told me I’d made my decision. I didn’t let myself think of the implications.

  “Whatever you say.” Allyn took my hand and led me inside.

  Dinner was as raucous as I’d expected it to be. After several rounds of after-dinner shots, most of which I politely declined, someone touched me on the shoulder. “You’re back.”

  Mitch.

  Under the table, Allyn nudged my knee.

  “I didn’t hear from you after you called about the house,” he said. “Did everything go okay?”

  “It was fine. I actually just got back today. I stayed a little longer than I expected.”

  He nodded, unbothered by the fact that I’d been gone for more than four months instead of a week as I’d originally planned.

  The lively conversation at the table carried on without me, and no one looked our way—except for Allyn, who kept one eye on us as he bantered with the group about a recent photo of Lady Gaga dressed as a drag queen.

  Mitch sat in the chair next to me, emptied when the previous occupant excused himself to go to the ladies’ room.

  “You look good,” he said. “Rested.”

  Of all the things I looked, I knew rested was not one of them. Maybe it was what he thought I wanted to hear. He was the one who looked good. Sleek charcoal suit, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, confident smile. It wasn’t Crawford’s torn khakis and wrinkled cotton, but it was nice.

  Just then, a wispy blonde with legs too long to be real sauntered over from the bar and put her hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Your drink is ready, baby.” She gave me a once-over, then glided away to a small table in a dark corner. Mitch and I both watched her as she settled herself in her chair and gazed back at us with a look of amusement on her smooth face.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” he said.

  “It probably is. And it’s okay.”

  “I’d love to call you. Or better yet, what if I stop by later tonight?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.

  “Tomorrow then. I’m free after three. I can pick you up and take you somewhere quiet. I know you don’t like places like this.”

  I thought about it. I could slip back into my life like nothing had changed. Go back to the shop, back to fancy dates with Mitch every two weeks, back to my routine. It was tempting, if only because I knew I could bury myself in it. But everything had changed, and I’d be cheating everyone—Crawford, William, Mags—to pretend otherwise.

  I looked up at Mitch. His body was turned toward me, but his eyes were on the blonde. I cleared my throat and he turned back to me.

  “What do you say?” he asked.

  “Go on.” I nodded toward his date. “Enjoy yourself.”

  He kissed me on the cheek and followed his date’s path to the corner table, leaving a musky scent in his wake.

  Allyn pushed my drink closer to me, but I nudged it away.

  “Sad to see him go?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “So small-town Alabama woodworkers are more your thing now, huh?”

  I smiled. That covered both Crawford and William—sort of. “Something like that.”

  Allyn dropped me off at my loft past midnight. I’d let him and his friends talk me into a dash to the revolving Carousel Bar at the Hotel Monteleone after dinner. Thankfully, Allyn whisked me away after one round, much to the dismay of the rest of the group.

  I dismounted at the curb in front of my loft and handed Allyn the helmet.

  He was about to pull away when I stopped him.

  “Was there a part of you that hoped I wouldn’t come back? You would’ve been the ‘captain at the helm’ after all.”

  “No, I—”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not mad,” I said. “In fact, I totally get it. You can run Bits and Pieces with your eyes closed just like I can. It’s your baby too.”

  “I’d never wish for you not to come back. Understand that first. But if we’re being honest, sure—I thought it’d be fun to have the run of the place. That is, if you even left it in my hands. You could just as easily have sold the shop and gotten a nice chunk of money out of it. I wouldn’t have blamed you a bit.”

  “I couldn’t sell the shop. There’s too much of me in it. And you.”

  “Same thing with The Hideaway,” he said. “You could have sold that, but you didn’t because there was too much of you and your family in it. You’re funny that way—you hang on to things that mean something to you, but you have a hard time hanging on to the people who do the same. Other than me, of course. I know you could never let me go.”

  I pinched his shoulder. “You’re right. We’re stuck at the hip, lucky for both of us.”

  “But unlucky for Crawford.” He revved his engine, but before he pulled away from the curb, he pulled his helmet back up. “You may think you have nothing left in Sweet Bay, but you’re wrong. You do have something, regardless of the house. You have love. And you have family now—William, Dot and Glory and their old men. You can’t tell me that’s nothing.”

  He snapped his helmet back into place and sped off.

  44

  SARA

  SEPTEMBER

  The next day began like so many others before it. I had my usual breakfast of yogurt and fruit, showered and dressed, and was out the door at nine fifteen. The last time I’d left my building on a regular workday, it was a crisp April morning. Now it was early September, cloudy and so muggy you could almost wring the air out like a sponge. I hopped into my car and zipped through the Quarter and down Canal toward Magazine. Along the way, other shop owners opened their doors, swept the detritus of the previous night from their sidewalks, and watered thirsty window boxes.

  I jiggled my key into the lock at Bits and Pieces, holding on to my purse and to-go cup of coffee. Allyn roared into the driveway behind me.

  “Morning, Boss.” He tucked his helmet into its place under the seat.

  Inside, I flipped the lights on, powered up the computer, and switched on the Keurig in the back. When I checked the dish for pralines, I found squares of dark chocolate. The CD player held Michael Bublé rather than the usual Madeleine Peyroux or Diana Krall.

  “Just small changes,” Allyn said, noticing my tension. “You can handle it.”

  And I did. That day drifted into the next, and before I knew it, I’d been back a week. My skin prickled anytime I thought of Crawford, but I tried to get through each day without thinking too much. I still felt restricted in my heels and smooth hair, but I fit my surroundings, and the shop was thriving. Nothing—and yet everything—had changed.

&nb
sp; The Saturday shoppers came early, reminding me why I loved retail in a tourist town. Whether they were from Louisiana or Minnesota, they all wanted to buy something embellished with New Orleans’s famous fleur-de-lis. Thankfully, Allyn had amped up our supply of pillows and knickknacks featuring the symbol.

  I was blessedly busy all morning, my mind occupied with customer questions and client requests. I visited the site of Mrs. Broussard’s new house to ensure the builders remembered to include the east-facing bay window in her walk-in closet/dressing area—at her special request—and I squeezed in a quick trip to an antique mall in Metairie. Allyn and I passed each other in the back hallway once, both hurrying to meet a demand somewhere.

  “Glad you came back to this?” he asked with a smile.

  “I haven’t sat down since I ate my breakfast this morning and my feet are killing me, if that tells you anything.”

  “Do you still love it?”

  I nodded. “I think I do. I just may have to take these heels off and go barefoot.”

  “That’s the Sweet Bay coming out in you.” He continued down the hall to a waiting customer.

  Early afternoon business slowed enough for me to take a short break on the front porch. I sat in the swing as folks passed by on the sidewalk. I was fine until I saw the little girl. She was probably four or five, with dark curls and still-plump arms. Her daddy grabbed her and spun her around, her delighted squeals making everyone around them smile. When he brought her back to the ground, she ran straight into her mother’s outstretched arms.

  All the sadness and longing I’d packed into the most remote pocket of my mind when I left Sweet Bay came flooding back. I thought of Mags. Of William’s old, gnarled hands and Crawford’s sturdy, capable ones. Of The Hideaway and all that had taken place there. The force of my longing almost doubled me over.