I was starting to get upset, too. This was something else she hadn’t told me, and it hurt like a knife in the heart that I hadn’t known. She and Will had been best friends, and it was obvious to anyone who saw them together that there was more lurking under the surface if either of them would have given it a chance.
Why hadn’t she told me what happened? Why had she thought I was unavailable? Sure, I’d been busy with the wedding and planning my and Connor’s move to New Orleans so he could attend law school, but she was my little sister. I’d always make time for her.
The silence between us stretched, open and aching, the only noise the cheery birdsong that seemed to mock this dark moment and the lap of the lake against the seawall, which suddenly sounded mournful.
I couldn’t take the quiet any longer, so I said, “Who’s Mrs. Teakes? I heard you on the phone earlier.”
Sadie seemed to recognize the life preserver I’d thrown and grabbed hold. “She’s a darling woman, lives down in Wetumpka. I was at her house to film a piece for A Southern Hankerin’ on making ambrosia when I got your text about Mama’s heart attack.”
“Everyone knows how to make ambrosia.”
Sadie studied me for a long moment before saying, “You don’t watch my videos, do you? Any of them.”
I shifted, uncomfortable. “I mean, I used to. The early ones. They were okay. As you know, I’m not much of a cook, so the videos kind of aren’t my thing. Plus, I don’t really spend much time online. Only to pay my bills and check email.”
In truth, I’d only watched the first video. It was enough. Not because it had been an amateurish cooking show but because it physically pained me to watch Sadie. Not only because I missed her, but because of her hair. That sparkling silvery hair that reminded me every time I saw it how my selfishness caused her to look the way she did. And was why she had died on a long ago summer night.
It had taken a lot of time, and a lot of self-reflection, to view her hair without guilt, to see it more as a symbol of her survival. Her hair was a beautiful reminder that she was still here with us.
“That’s a lame excuse and you know it. Even Mama watches my videos, and she doesn’t even have internet. She watches them on Uncle Camp’s cell phone.”
The knife in my heart twisted, and I suspected it had been an intentional wound, comparing me to Mother.
“You should probably watch one of the more recent ones sometime,” she added.
“Mm.” I pulled out my phone to see if I’d missed any calls or messages from Connor. I hadn’t. I glanced toward the wide opening leading into the great room and didn’t hear any voices. “Are Mother and Teddy still catching up?”
Always the peacemaker, she accepted the change of subject for what it was. “Mama fell asleep while they were talking, so Teddy helped me get her back upstairs and ready for bed. Hopefully she’ll sleep through the night.”
“There’s no way we’re going to be able to make her rest this weekend, is there?”
“Not even the slightest chance.” Silence yawned and stretched between us before Sadie stood up. “I think I’m going to get some ice cream now. You want some?”
“Definitely.”
I followed her to the kitchen. Like everywhere else in the house, the kitchen was tired. The cabinets were outdated; the appliances, too. The wood floors needed refinishing. Wallpaper peeled like it was trying to remove itself to save anyone else the trouble.
Sadie opened a drawer to grab spoons and the handle fell off in her hand. She held up the round knob. “This place is falling apart.”
I settled onto one of the three stools lined up in front of the peninsula. “It’s happened so gradually that I really hadn’t seen it before now. Or maybe I just wasn’t looking hard enough.”
She closed the drawer with her hip and slid a pint of ice cream and a spoon across to me. “I can’t believe there’s no Wi-Fi. Do you think that’s why Mama’s not getting her usual occupancy?”
I plunged the spoon into the ice cream. “Maybe.”
“I stay in a lot of B and Bs and I can tell you right now I wouldn’t stay here. Not twice, at least. We should talk to her. Maybe convince her to expand the renovations. At least to the entryway. First impressions and all that. At the very least, we need to talk her into upgrading her technology. How is she even handling the accounting books? An old-school ledger? An abacus?”
I smiled at the thought. “She doesn’t even own a cell phone, Sadie. Nothing we say to her will go over well. She’s stubborn and hates change.”
“She can’t be blind to the disrepair.”
“People see what they want to see. Always have, always will.” Mother had always been able to turn a blind eye or a deaf ear to the things in life that made her uncomfortable, things like talking about Daddy’s death.
“All I see is that this wallpaper is older than I am. Mama has to know it’s not good for business.” She held up a wait-a-sec finger, pulled out her phone, and a moment later winced. “Her Tripadvisor ratings in the past year are worrisome. Mostly two and three stars. Praise for Mama’s outstanding hospitality and the hearty breakfasts, but the cottage is being skewered for its dated décor and lack of Wi-Fi.”
I skirted the peninsula and looked over her shoulder. “She doesn’t have internet, so there’s no way she’s seen these reviews.”
Sadie spoke around the ice cream she’d just spooned into her mouth. “Since we’re here for a couple of days, maybe we should give the cottage a little makeover. Some paint at least.”
“Do you really think Mother will let us paint anything? You know how she likes to do everything herself. She’ll see our help as charity and block it straight off the bat.”
Light sparkled in Sadie’s eyes as she said, “I have an idea.” She practically skipped over to the bottom of the stairs and eyed the wall.
Pushing my ice cream aside, I reluctantly followed her. “What’re you doing?”
“Strategizing.” She flashed a smile before reaching out to take hold of a loose wallpaper seam on the wall leading up to the turn in the staircase, a small landing that housed a very dirty window and a bench with a built-in bookcase beneath it. Then she pulled, and a strip of wallpaper ripped off the wall, leaving behind its fuzzy backing.
My jaw dropped. “What are you doing?”
She grinned. “Sometimes, Leala, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”
Chapter
6
Sadie
Even though I’d been up late baking and prepping for the breakfast service, I woke at the crack of dawn. There was a lot to do today between taking care of the guests and the cottage, removing the rest of the wallpaper, and also getting my own work done. I had emails to sort through and an episode of A Southern Hankerin’ to edit. I crept carefully around the room trying not to stir Leala before realizing in the soft light of the breaking morning that she wasn’t in her bed.
I switched on a lamp. Her twin bed was neatly made, with its thin cotton quilt folded at the foot of the bed and the down pillows plumped against the white iron headboard. A pink blanket was tucked in tightly, and the corners of the pillowcases had been pulled taut.
After rummaging through the battered suitcase I’d carried from town to town over the years, I pulled out a pair of knee-length denim shorts with folded hems and a fuchsia short-sleeve T-shirt. I brushed my hair and set about braiding it, and the sparkles danced in the mirror over the dresser.
It was a little surreal to be back in my old room, especially since nothing had changed from the day I moved out—not one little thing. My side of the room was an explosion of organized chaos. Old posters hung at angles. My bed was a riot of color, from the patterned quilt to the mismatched sheets and blanket. Some of the books in my case were laid horizontally, others stood vertically. Books that reminded me that I once wanted to be a writer more than anything else in the world. The thesauruses, the Chicago Manual of Style, the books on how to develop a writing voice. It all seemed a life
time ago, a blurry memory just out of reach. The desire to write still lurked somewhere deep within me, but my creativity had waned after my accident and hadn’t returned. Maybe one day it would come back, but until then, I was happy sharing other people’s stories. I loved my job and couldn’t imagine life without it now, which was a good reminder that sometimes the first paths we take aren’t the right ones.
I tied off my braid and crossed the room for my shoes. Leala’s side of the room was a study in perfection. Her books were organized alphabetically. Her posters hung levelly. She’d always preferred neat and tidy, and I had the feeling it was because it was something she could control while living in a home that was wildly unpredictable.
A fishbowl filled with Leala’s pet rocks sat on her side of the bench we used as a shared nightstand, and I picked one up from the top of the pile, rubbing my finger over the smooth stone that had a painted cat face on it, complete with inverted V-shaped ears. Then I smiled at the sight of the paperback she’d been reading before bed last night—Mama had the same book on the window bench in her room, except where Mama’s book’s spine was broken, the pages dog-eared, Leala’s was pristine in condition, appearing to never have been cracked open.
Pipes squeaked, and I tipped my head. The water was running in Mama’s bathroom shower. I glanced at the clock. Not even six yet. I hurried to Mama’s room. Her door was ajar, and I pushed it fully open to find her bed already made as well—not as neatly as Leala’s but not as haphazardly as mine.
Mama was singing in the shower—“Shallow, alllllow, allllow, allllow”—and I smiled despite the fact that she should be in bed.
I gently knocked on the bathroom door and opened it a crack. I stuck my mouth in the gap. “Mama?”
“Don’t you just love that song?”
Steam floated out, swirling around me in billowy plumes. “You should be in bed.”
“No, I needed to wash up. I stunk like a hospital.”
“You should’ve at least let Leala or me help you.”
“I’m not an invalid, Sadie Way. I can take a shower.”
I breathed deeply through my nose. Again I had to choose my battles, because I knew about the stairwell wallpaper and she did not. Yet.
“Give me fifteen minutes,” I said, “and I’ll bring up a breakfast tray. How’s an egg white omelet sound?”
“Dreadful.”
“Mama, the doctor said—”
“Alllow, allow, allow!” she sang loudly, not even getting the lyrics right.
Downstairs, Nigel started barking. I groaned. “I’ll be right back.”
I closed the door firmly behind me, turned down the covers of her bed to encourage her to get back into it, and quietly made my way down to the kitchen, resisting the urge to tear off another panel of wallpaper along the way.
The lights were on throughout the main level and the coffee pot dripped its liquid magic, delightfully scenting the air with all the hope that came with a new day. A few of the back porch windows were open, letting in a gentle breeze. Birds sang, bugs hummed, and somewhere in the distance a boat motor buzzed dully.
I glanced out the wide window above the kitchen sink as I washed my hands. Dawn was breaking open over the lake, spilling soft gray light onto the water—and illuminating Leala, who stood on one leg at the end of the dock. The other leg was pulled up behind her, held high by her right hand. Her left arm was stretched forward. She looked like a ballerina as she executed the yoga pose, and I couldn’t help staring. Leala was the last person in the world I would have thought to practice yoga. She was so buttoned-up, a planner and organizer. She’d had her life mapped out since she was a young girl, dreaming of everything and anything that was different from what she already had. Yoga was all about living, being, in the moment. Yet, there she was. And by the looks of her, she wasn’t a novice.
I dried my hands and reached for the coffee pot as Uncle Camp shuffled into the kitchen, already dressed for the day. He smelled like soap and kindness and love. The ceiling lights reflected off his bald head as he planted an exaggerated, noisy kiss on my temple, his soft whiskers tickling my cheek. “Just like old times seeing you standing there. We sure have missed you around these parts.”
“I’ve missed you, too,” I said honestly as I added a splash of cream and a pinch of sugar to my mug. Uncle Camp and I regularly kept in touch through text messages, mostly silly memes. But being here with him in person was just one more thing that reminded me of how much I missed home.
As I poured coffee into a mug for him, adding a spoonful of sorghum syrup to it, a reedy wail filled the air, and we both turned toward the window as the loon trilled her morning plea. The bird looked spectral on the eerily gray water as she glided along, her call echoing in the quiet morning.
I stared at the ripples she made in the water, thinking back to my accident. I had very few memories of that night beyond tripping over my own feet and falling. I didn’t remember hitting my head on a pylon. Or tumbling off the dock into the water. I didn’t remember being lost beneath the surface for ten long minutes. But I remembered the lights. There had been twinkling orbs floating around me, swirling, wrapping me in what felt like a warm hug. And then there was the feeling of air in my lungs. Life. My mind was blank from that point on until I woke up in the hospital the next morning.
After the bird floated past, Uncle Camp said, “Did I hear Susannah singing earlier?”
I set down my mug and crossed to the fridge for eggs. “I think the whole street did. I’m going to try to get her to eat something healthy and stay in bed all day, resting, reading, watching reality TV. You know she can’t resist all those Housewives shows.” Which was probably the only reason the cottage had a good cable package. “Are you hungry? I’m fixin’ Mama an omelet. Happy to make one for you, too.”
“Thank you kindly, but I already ate.” From the counter he picked up the drawer pull that I’d forgotten to replace last night and held it up, a question in his eyes. “Don’t suppose this is related to the missin’ wallpaper in the stairwell?”
I blinked as innocently as I could manage. “The knob plumb fell off the drawer when I opened it last night.”
Using a screwdriver from his Swiss Army knife drawn from his pocket, he easily reattached the drawer pull. “And the wallpaper?”
“It plumb fell off the wall when I pulled on it.”
Humor filled his eyes—eyes so like my daddy’s. “You hopin’ your mama stays in bed to rest or to not kill you for messin’ with her walls?”
I broke an egg, separating the yolk from the whites using my fingers. “Mostly the first. Partly the second. Leala and I plan to redo the stairway and entryway this weekend. Well, I am. Leala thinks I’ve done lost my mind. But hopefully once she’s over her shock she’ll lend a hand.”
“The contractor will be by ’bout nine.” Uncle Camp’s wiry salt-and-pepper eyebrows dipped low. “You should talk to him about finishing the job for you.”
I’d taken a moment last night to inspect the two guest rooms under construction and had been impressed with the work being done. The rooms, both of which had double doors that opened into the backyard, were bound to be highly desirable among guests. The work seemed close to completion with the walls having already been repaired and primed, and the bathrooms had received a complete overhaul, with new walk-in showers. Flooring and fixtures were still needed, but it seemed reasonable that the rooms would be rentable by next weekend.
I finished cracking the rest of the eggs, then washed my hands and dried them. “You don’t trust Leala and me to do it right?”
Uncle Camp smiled. “All I’m sayin’ is no one’s a tougher critic than your mama. Don’t you remember the one time she made the house painter redo the job three times?”
I remembered. I also recalled how she’d done it so sweetly—and always with a baked good in hand—that the house painter hadn’t seemed to mind. Mama had a natural way with strangers that was nothing short of a gift. Her enthusiasm for life was cha
rming, and people were always charmed.
Uncle Camp pulled a sauté pan from a cabinet. “All I’m saying is that it might be best to let someone else carry the weight of her expectations.”
I noticed a slight tremor in his hand as he set the pan on the stovetop. He’d turned seventy-six earlier this year and was just as active as I’d always known him to be—he just moved more slowly now. I didn’t even want to think about the day he would no longer be around, this man I loved so much, who was the last connection to my father and the Scott side of the family. Though Uncle Camp had done a good job through the years of teaching us our family history, I felt like there was always more to learn. Especially about Uncle Camp himself.
I only knew bullet points of his life, mere glimpses, culled together through the years. Whenever I’d asked about his life before living with us, he always joked that it had begun only after he moved into the cottage, but I always sensed a serious, almost somber, nature lurking deep within him, hidden by a quick smile, a bad joke, or an offer of something to eat.
Uncle Camp had been in the military during the early days of the Vietnam War but never, ever spoke of it, and Mama always warned us not to bug him about it, because according to her, no one in the Scott family liked talking about their tragedies.
Apparently, I’d inherited that particular trait, too, because I’d rather talk about anything other than my accident.
After his time as a soldier, Uncle Camp found his way back home to Alabama and took up carpentry, which eventually landed him here at the lake. And I quite honestly wasn’t sure what we would have done without him. Any of us.
“Has Mama talked at all about doing a bigger renovation or hiring on any help?” I asked.
“It comes up from time to time.”
“Then goes away again?” The pipes squeaked, a sure sign that Mama had just shut off the shower. I had to hurry. I gathered an onion, mushrooms, spinach, and Swiss cheese.
The Lights of Sugarberry Cove Page 6