He took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. “Susannah doesn’t like change. And big renovations will hurt business, and that’s hurting enough already.”
I chopped the onion, sliced the mushrooms, then turned the knob on the stove. A blue flame jumped to life beneath the pan. I adjusted the flame, then bypassed the butter to use spray oil to coat the bottom of the pan. I sautéed the veggies, then added the egg whites to the mix. “How bad is it?”
“Can’t say for sure. Susannah handles all that, but it hasn’t escaped my notice that we’ve had many empty rooms this year.”
Stress from worrying about occupancy probably hadn’t helped Mama’s heart issues. But in order to bump up occupancy, changes needed to happen. That much was obvious from the reviews I’d read last night. As the eggs cooked, I grabbed a breakfast tray. “I’m going to do my best to help out while I’m here. I can take down wallpaper, paint, clean windows.”
With an unwavering gaze, he watched me over the rim of his mug. “Ain’t but twenty-four hours in a day, Sadie. Perhaps you should consider extending your stay if you’re all fired up to lend a hand around here.”
He played dirty. “I can’t stay. I’m heading down to Wetumpka on Monday.” Or at least I hoped I would be—I still hadn’t heard back from Mrs. Teakes on whether that day worked for her. I was already looking forward to being back in her charming kitchen, making ambrosia and hearing about her late husband, Whit, who’d knocked her off her feet at a church picnic in the late 1960s. Literally off her feet—he’d bumped into her, and she’d fallen onto the grass … and for him.
Uncle Camp took a leisurely sip of coffee. “If you say so.”
His hand was shaking again. I nodded to it. “Is your hand okay?”
Those out-of-control eyebrows of his dipped low as he gave his fingers a wry look. “Oh, that. It’s just the wobbles.”
“The wobbles?”
“Comes on in old age. Ain’t nothing to be done for it, unless you’ve got a fountain of youth around here someplace.”
I smirked. “Is wobbles the technical term for the diagnosis?”
His eyes twinkled. “Of course it is. It’s written plain as can be in the medical journal, printed right after the wiggles. But that affliction affects toddlers mostly.”
A vision of Tucker wiggling with excitement over his Easter basket popped into my head and I smiled. I turned the omelet out of the pan and onto a plate. I filled a ramekin with the raspberries Buzzy had sent over and set it on the breakfast tray. “Have you seen a doctor about the wobbles?”
“Don’t go worrying about me, Sadie Way. Just had my checkup with Dr. Barnhill not two months ago. I’m fit as a wobbly fiddle.”
I was going to worry no matter what. Over the years he’d filled in as a parent more often than I could count, especially giving of his time and attention—two things Mama rarely spared for us girls. I loved him with my whole heart. “But not a wiggly one.”
He laughed as he rinsed his mug and put it in the dishwasher. “You always were a quick learner. Me and my wobbles get by just fine. Life’s about adjusting. Gettin’ old isn’t for the faint of heart, but it is for the lucky. No question, I’m a lucky man. It’s a gift to be alive.”
The lucky. Old age was a privilege not granted to all. My daddy had been only thirty when he passed away after falling off a ladder here at the cottage—he’d been only four years older than I was now. Why had he died so young, yet I’d been allowed to live when I fell in the lake? Both had been accidents.
Why had I been saved?
Uncle Camp crossed the hall to adjust the thermostat for the day, and said, “Thanks for covering the kitchen this weekend. It’s a rare day I get a break from cooking breakfast.”
Since Leala didn’t like to cook, we’d made a pact. I’d cook and she’d do the dishes while we were here, to give Uncle Camp a rest along with Mama.
With his big hand he cupped his ear. “I hear weeds callin’ my name—they’re easier to pull when the dew is fresh. If you need me, I’ll be—”
It was the sound of footsteps on the stairs that cut him off. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and hoped to the stars above it was Bree or Teddy on their way down, but those hopes were dashed when I heard humming. Mama soon appeared on the landing, and I braced myself for the incoming wallpaper storm.
“What a gorgeous morning,” she said, pausing to look out the window.
Sunlight seeped through the filthy glass to illuminate her face. Her coloring was nearly back to normal. Her hair was combed and damp, her wild curls mere waves. I was disappointed to see she was dressed for the day in long shorts and a bright-yellow V-neck tunic top, embroidered at the collar with colorful flowers, and had on slip-on canvas shoes. She was treating this like just another day on the job when she should be resting, healing.
“Sure is.” Uncle Camp headed for the back porch. “Was just about to head out to do some weeding.”
I grabbed his arm, yanking him to a stop. “You sure you don’t want an omelet, Uncle Camp? Or a scone. Yes, a scone! They’re raspberry with vanilla glaze. I made them last night.”
He tried to wriggle free. “Not hungry, darlin’.”
“Another cup of coffee, then?”
With a grin, he said under his breath, “Bawk, bawk.”
I stepped in even closer to him and kept a firm hold of his arm as I whispered, “Do you blame me?”
“No, ma’am,” he whispered back. “Surely don’t.”
Mama slowly descended the remaining six steps. “Did you say raspberr—”
She abruptly stopped talking, her gaze on the wall, where the missing strip of wallpaper was glaringly obvious in the growing light of day. Her jaw dropped and she tentatively reached out to touch the wall that still had the fuzzy wallpaper backing attached, as if to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.
For a moment, I felt six years old again, wanting to blame the crime at hand on Leala Clare. I shook the thought away since those two had enough issues as is. Plus, Mama would never believe me. I was always the one getting into mischief and messes as a child, not Leala, who tended to follow rules like she’d been the one to write them. Besides, this had been my plot, my plan, and while I had deemed it brilliant last night, suddenly I was having second thoughts.
“I tripped,” I blurted, lying through my teeth. “And when I reached for the wall to catch my balance, I caught an edge of the wallpaper, and it tore. Sorry, Mama. The paper was so ripped up that it couldn’t be glued back on without it looking like a hot mess. But I promise I’ll fix it right up. The whole entryway.”
Shoulders stiff, I braced for hurricane-strength gusts and barely noticed Uncle Camp patting my hand that clutched his arm.
Mama continued to stare at the wall, silent as the grim reaper.
“Mama?” I questioned with a wince. “Are you mad?”
At the question, she reached out, grabbed hold of another loose seam of wallpaper, and yanked. The sucking sound echoed through the entryway and up the staircase.
Uncle Camp and I glanced at each other, wearing, I was quite sure, identical expressions of shock.
Finally Mama turned to face us, and I was surprised to see light in her eyes instead of flames. She smiled and said, “Depends on your definition of mad.”
Chapter
7
Leala
It was past time to head back inside the cottage, shower, and get started with the morning chores, including breakfast service. But the longer I sat on the end of the dock, the longer I wanted to stay exactly where I was. I wasn’t even sure how long I’d been out here. A half hour? An hour? Long enough to see the sun come up and the loon float by. And hopefully long enough to avoid Mother’s hissy fit at seeing Sadie’s wallpaper handiwork.
It was peaceful out here, just the way I liked it. Calm, despite the occasional noise from johnboats puttering by and the chirp of the birds, katydids, and frogs. I honestly didn’t know how Sadie could stay away from the lake so long. Sometimes it felt like heaven on
earth, and I deeply regretted that Connor and I hadn’t bought a smaller place on the water so I could enjoy it day in and day out.
The water gently lapped the stone seawall, rhythmic and lulling, and for a moment I thought about napping on my yoga mat. I hadn’t slept well at all last night, tossing and turning and checking my phone, despite finally receiving a picture from Connor of Tucker sound asleep in his bed with the caption GOOD DAY, GOOD NIGHT.
I had stared at the picture for a good long while, before I sent back a pink heart emoji. I longed to talk to Connor, because I missed him. At the same time, I wasn’t ready, because I wasn’t yet sure what to say to the man who’d become so distant. Yesterday had made it abundantly clear that my marriage couldn’t survive in its current state. Something had to give.
Rolling my shoulders, I tried to ease the growing knots of tension that I’d just worked so hard to release. I picked up my phone from the mat next to me and called up the photo again. Asleep in his toddler bed, Tucker’s cheeks were pink, his mouth slightly open, his face slack with the peace that came with deep sleep. His sunny-blond hair, cut shorter than usual for summertime, was in disarray, reminding me of Connor’s hair when he woke up every morning. Moo was tucked in close to him.
At the ache in my chest, I took a deep breath and willed away the feelings of grief. Like I had lost something. Someone. I hadn’t. Though, maybe in a way, I had. Even though Connor wasn’t gone, the man I’d fallen in love with was. And with that thought, the ache deepened.
I focused on my breathwork as the sunshine warmed my back, and as much as I hated to leave this spot, it was time to head inside. As I stretched my legs, a dog barked from nearby. I glanced over my shoulder. Nigel raced full speed ahead toward me, his feet barely making any noise on the dock’s wooden planks, Bree not far behind him. I hadn’t heard them come out because I’d oiled the track of the sliding door early this morning. Now I wondered if it had been left squeaky on purpose, a bell of sorts to announce comings and goings.
Nigel pounced, and I laughed as he licked my face and threw himself against my body. I gave him a good belly rub as Bree jogged toward us.
“I’m so sorry!” Her hair had been pulled up in a messy bun and she wore baggy lounge pants and a tank top. No shoes. “He saw you down here and made a break for it as soon as I stepped outside. Hopped right out of my arms. Nigel, come here,” she ordered in an exasperated tone.
If Nigel hadn’t come running, I was quite sure Bree would’ve avoided talking with me altogether. At dinner last night she’d said little, answering any questions with short answers. I’d been able to capture only a fuzzy picture of her life. She was an only child. She was going into her senior year of high school but was being homeschooled. She had no plans for college at the moment. She liked dogs. And art. And pizza. She’d talked nothing of her scars. I had desperately wanted to ask about them and her family but had recalled Teddy’s hushed voice in the entryway, whispering about Bree’s tragic life, so I’d kept the questions to myself.
“He’s no bother.” Nigel lolled in front of me, clearly not planning to go anywhere, especially if I intended to keep giving him belly rubs. His soft brown eyes shined with happiness. Tucker would love Nigel. Eat him right up. Perhaps it was time to get a dog of our own. Or a cat. That fluffy kitten I’d always wanted. As I stood up, Nigel put his paws on my knees. His tail wagged as I added, “But as much as I’d love to stay outside and play, I was just about to head inside to help with breakfast.”
Just steps away, Bree’s attention fell to my stomach, bare between my crop top and the yoga pants that sat low on my hips. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet mine.
“Emergency C-section,” I said as I petted Nigel’s head and answered the question Bree hadn’t asked. “The doctor had to do a vertical incision to save my baby’s life. And mine, too.”
“You almost died?”
In my mind, I could still hear the flurry of activity in the surgery suite right before they put me under, scared and confused. I nodded. “I lost a lot of blood. And the wound didn’t heal well, obviously.” The thick, raised scar was an eight-inch-long purplish vertical line starting just above my belly button and ending at my pubic bone.
I recognized that in this moment I was talking too much, sharing something quite personal—which was completely out of my tight-lipped character. It’s not like she’d even asked, for heaven’s sake, but I felt the need to connect to this young woman who seemed so shy and sad. If my story helped her in any way, I’d share it with her a thousand times over.
Bree’s hand lifted to her face, her fingertips grazing the thin lines crisscrossing her cheek. Then she looked at the lake, at the shimmery glow kissing the water’s surface as the sun crept upward.
When she said nothing, I took a deep breath and overshared yet again by gently saying, “Everyone bears scars, inside and out. And behind every single one of those healed wounds is a story of strength and resilience and recovery. My scar is simply part of me, part of my story.”
“But don’t you hate when people stare?”
“I don’t mind the staring too much. People are curious, that’s all—kind of like how you were with Sadie’s hair. The looks of pity bother me more, because I don’t like people feeling sorry for me when they don’t even know me or what I’ve been through.”
Her face crumpled into a frown. “The pity is the worst.”
“I just try to remind myself that pity usually comes from a good place, one of empathy and sympathy. When I see a look of pity now, I try to think of it as a look of caring instead. It makes it much more tolerable.”
I hoped she’d open up to me as well, but instead of sharing the story of her scars, she said, “How old is your baby?”
I gave her a smile because I recognized that some wounds were still too raw to share. “He’s two and a half. His name’s Tucker. He’s having bonding time with his dad this weekend, while I’m helping out here.”
“That’s too bad he didn’t come with you. I love little kids. So honest. So innocent. And funny.”
“Ridiculously funny.” Had Connor realized that yet? Had he laughed at Tucker’s silliness or rushed him through the day so he could check his email after Tuck was asleep?
Suddenly agitated, I grabbed my yoga mat, forgetting that my phone had been on it. As if in slow motion, I watched as the phone launched into the air and dropped into the water with a loud plop, disappearing below the surface before I could even think to dive in after it. I swore a blue streak in my head, clenched my fists, and tried to quell a rising panic.
It was just a phone, I told myself over and over, but my stomach ached at the loss. Of not being able to call up Tucker’s sweet face with a swipe of a finger. Of having to deal with getting a replacement. And how was Connor going to reach me if there was an emergency? The knot in my stomach tightened, and the panic rose into my throat, tightening it.
“I can go in after it,” Bree offered, peering over the edge of the dock. “I’m a good swimmer.”
I took a deep, calming breath, and the knots loosened enough to talk without my voice shaking. I tried for a light tone to mask how upset I truly was because I didn’t want Bree worrying about me. “That’s real nice of you to offer, Bree, but this part of the lake is quite deep. The phone’s likely twenty or thirty feet down by now, and I doubt it would survive being submerged anyway.”
I forced my fists to relax. I’d call Connor from Mother’s landline to let him know what happened and then figure out how to get a replacement as quick as possible. I threw one last look at the water, finished rolling my mat, and grabbed the lightweight cover-up I’d brought outside. I shrugged into it, tying its strings into a bow. I motioned for Bree to follow as I headed back to the cottage.
She gestured at the yoga mat. “Is yoga hard?”
Nigel raced ahead of us, circling back every couple of steps to make sure we were following. “Yoga’s great in the way that you can adjust it to suit your skill level. It’s up to you
on how much you want to challenge yourself. You’re more than welcome to join me out here tomorrow morning. I can show you a few of the poses.”
“I’d like that,” she said quietly.
My heart soared. “Then it’s a date.”
She gave me a shy smile just as Nigel darted for the honeysuckle hedge, barking and bouncing at something wiggling in the vines. I was 100 percent sure I didn’t want to know what it was.
“Nigel!” Bree called, chasing after him. “Hush!” She scooped him up and carried him to the doggy play yard.
The scent of cooking bacon greeted me at the sliding door, beckoning me inside. But I froze in shock as I stepped into the great room. My mother was standing on the landing yanking wallpaper off the wall with wild abandon, passing the strips to Uncle Camp, who stuffed them into a trash bag.
Sadie spotted me, rushed over, and whispered, “She’s been at it for nearly twenty minutes now.”
“You didn’t tell her to stop?”
“Of course I did. You can see how well it went over. At this point, I’m kind of hoping she tires herself out so she’ll stay in bed the rest of the day.”
It was a technique I used on Tucker regularly. The more active he was early in the day, the better he slept at night. It seemed all kinds of wrong to employ the method on Mother, however. “Was she angry?”
“Not even a little, which surprised the heck out of me. She seemed more shocked than anything. She tore one strip off, started laughing, and kept going. Every once in a while, she sings, ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ as she tears off another section. She won’t let Uncle Camp help, either. He looks like he’s plotting a dozen different ways to escape.” A buzzer rang out. “That’s the bacon.”
She scooted around the peninsula and opened the oven to remove a foil-wrapped baking sheet covered in crispy bacon strips. I glanced at Uncle Camp, who stared longingly at the front door, his nearest means of escape. His gaze shifted, and he sent me a pleading look. I shrugged. I wasn’t sure there was any stopping her at this point, and the last thing I wanted was to try to force her to quit. Mother didn’t like being told what to do.
The Lights of Sugarberry Cove Page 7