Driftwood Summer (15 page)

 

Maisy’s clothes were strewn across her childhood bedroom. The room had changed very little since the day she left for California. The bulletin board held dried corsages; the pale pink walls whispered of adolescence; from the bottom right post of the bed hung one blue and one green pom-pom. Of course Mama had removed the R.E.M. band poster. Maisy walked over to the window and opened it in the hope that the breeze of an incoming storm would wash her mind clean.

It didn’t work.

She showered and dressed, regret slowing her movements—for new and old mistakes. She hadn’t been home twenty-four hours and she’d already screwed up. After dressing, she poked her head into Adalee’s room, where she was sound asleep in a curled-up position. Maisy woke Adalee, told her to get up, get dressed and go see Mama and pretend nothing had happened. Now. And she was expected at the bookstore in an hour.

When Maisy entered the drawing room moments later, Mama was sitting up in bed with a large piece of white graph paper on her lap, her breakfast tray on the side table. Uneaten eggs had congealed on the plate, a single bite of English muffin had been taken and a few strawberries were scattered across the family china. Maisy walked over and kissed her mama on the cheek. “Good morning, Mama.”

“Well, hello, sweet girl. Aren’t you running a little late?”

“Yes, I am. The time zone messed me up. Riley’s at the store. All is well.”

Mama pointed to the graph paper with codes and numbers that looked like a strategic military chart. “You see, you’re supposed to be at the book club meeting and Adalee is supposed to be here with me for the next hour, going over the . . .”

Maisy picked up the sheet of paper, and saw it was a grid schedule with the initials RS, MS and AS filling blocks of time. “Well, this is impressive.”

“Riley did it. I’m just revising it.”

Maisy looked around the room. “Where’s your nurse? You hardly ate any of your breakfast.”

“I told her to leave me alone, that I was sure my youngest daughter would be down any minute to eat with me.”

Maisy looked away from her mother’s penetrating blue eyes. Mama would know she was lying if she said everything was okay with Adalee—Mama always knew when her girls weren’t being truthful. “I’m sorry I missed breakfast; I’ve got to go help Riley.” Maisy shrugged. “But I’ll see you this afternoon, okay?”

Maisy kissed her mama goodbye and somehow made it out of the house without having to explain why Adalee was still in bed. Maisy parked in the rear of the bookstore lot and entered through the back door. Morning light fell through the windows onto the scarred hardwood floors. She did love this place.

Riley’s voice came from the other end of the store. The aroma of coffee and cinnamon wafted from the bakery. Women’s laughter filtered from the book club corner.

Maisy looked toward the side room where the door was shut: the former library in the Logan home—now a storage area. The wooden double doors were closed. A bright red ribbon was tied around the two glass doorknobs with a calligraphy sign saying “
Do Not Enter.
” If that sign had been there the night she’d come here with Tucker Morgan, would it have stopped her? Could anything have stopped her in those days when she seemed bent on self-destruction?

She moved toward the doors, ran her hand over the glass knobs, felt their ridges in her palm.

Familiar voices made chill bumps run down her arms. She spun around and saw them—Mack Logan and Riley. Maisy froze, her heart—already battered with memory—stopped, then started with a stutter. They were laughing; Mack’s arm was draped over Riley’s shoulders. A man she didn’t recognize stood in front of the group with a camera slung over his shoulder.

Ancient anger rose from a place Maisy had pretended didn’t exist. In slow steps she moved toward them.

Mack saw her first and smiled. That heartbreaking smile. The one she’d remembered exactly right. His hair fell across his forehead and she knew that underneath was a thin scar from a boat accident.

“Maisy.”

She went to him, threw her arms around him with an abandon she immediately regretted, yet couldn’t seem to stop. “Mack,” she said, then stepped back to look at him.

At last she recognized Lodge, hugged him, too. They stood in a semicircle, and Maisy said, “We look like we’re about to perform some primitive dance to the Driftwood gods.”

Lodge lifted his camera. “Hey, let me get a quick shot and then I’ll go finish this follow-up article. I think I have everything I need, right?” He glanced at Riley.

“The newsletter I gave you has the details,” she said.

Maisy watched her sister’s nervous movements, knowing them as well as she knew her own: the toss of the hair, the rub of the eyes and the shuffle of the feet.

Riley called Brayden over and they lined up in a row: Brayden, Maisy, Mack and Riley smiled for the camera.

Logan shook his head after he snapped a few more pictures. “Time warp,” he said.

Maisy laughed. “Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice.”

Brayden moved back to his seat at a nearby table, but he continued to observe them through squinted eyes. Riley went to him and Maisy wondered for the hundredth time which man had given this child his quiet spirit. Did whoever it was even know that Brayden existed? She glanced at Mack. She wouldn’t imagine it could be him—Riley had denied it vehemently ever since the day she came home from college.

“Maisy,” Riley said, “will you take the tray of coffee and muffins to the book club?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Maisy heard the bite of resentment underneath her own words.

Riley exhaled, that damn disapproving exhale. “Forget it. I’ll do it.”

Maisy held up her hand. “I said I’d do it. I woke Adalee and told her to be here in an hour.”

“Thank you,” Riley said. “Thank you so much.” Then her face went expressionless, flat. “Damn.”

“What?” Maisy followed her sister’s gaze.

“Poor Ethel is having to deal with Mrs. Winter again. She keeps buying hardcover novels and then returning them, pretending she’s never read them . . . and gets another.”

“Does she think this is a library?” Maisy took a step toward the front counter.

Riley put her hand on Maisy’s arm. “Don’t say anything. It’s just not worth it. Her son is a local police deputy and she’ll throw a monumental fit, and then we’ll get a call from the sheriff ’s office, and then he’ll come in here wanting to know why we’d embarrass his mother in that disgraceful way.”

Maisy laughed. “Sounds like you know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s happened too many times.”

“Good ol’ Palmetto Beach.”

Riley turned to Mack. “Okay, I’ve absolutely got to get to work. But we’ll see you later this weekend, won’t we?”

“Absolutely,” he said.

Maisy studied Riley, watching for signs of attraction, lust, even love. When Riley left to wait on customers, Maisy sidled up to Mack. “Hey,” she said.

He smiled. “It is so weird to see my old home like this. But it’s like it was meant to be.”

She nodded, and then blurted out, “Want to meet for lunch or something? Riley and Mama have me working nonstop, but I do get a lunch hour.”

“I’m headed to the pier to fish with Brayden and Dad, but we can meet for a late lunch. One o’clock at the Beach Club?”

She nodded again, her usual quick wit failing.

“Great,” he said, motioning to Brayden that he was ready to go.

Maisy stood immobile while her nephew and Mack walked out the back door toward the beach. Anne stood behind the bakery counter, piling muffins on a wicker tray. Maisy approached the counter, broke off a piece of a banana-nut muffin. “Thank God for the bakery.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Coffee?” Anne asked.

“Please.” Maisy picked up the full tray Anne had prepared. “I’ll take this over to the book club and be right back.”

The six women sat in a circle, purses and tote bags scattered on the floor. “Hi, ladies.” Maisy entered the group, stood in the center. “I’m Maisy Sheffield. I’ll be helping with the book clubs for the next week or so while Mama is laid up. Please let me know if you need anything.” She set the tray on the large and, in her opinion, heinous-looking coffee table. It was made of pressed wood, something she hated with the same fervor their childhood preacher had hated dancing. A tall blonde stood up. “Hi, I’m Betty Oberman. This”—she ran her manicured hand in a circle—“is the Blonde Book Club. We meet every Friday morning.”

“You read a book a week?” Maisy asked. She took a quick glance at each woman, trying not to be obvious. Yes, each was a different shade of blond.

“No . . . but we talk about lots more than just books.”

“Great.” Maisy looked over her shoulder at the cash register, where Ethel had a long line. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.” Betty smiled.

“Do you have to be a blonde to be in the book club?”

Betty’s smile grew larger. “Oh, no. Definitely not. We called it that because we were all friends in high school—and we all had blond hair back then. Of course we all have to fake it now, so we thought it was funny. Millie’s not here—but she has black-as-a-raven hair.”

These women were younger than Maisy, so she wouldn’t have known them in high school. “You all went to Palmetto High?”

They nodded in agreement. Betty answered for them all. “We graduated six years ago.”

“Go, Dolphins.” Maisy faked a rah-rah sound. “I graduated from there also.”

“We know,” Betty said. “You were only seven years ahead of us. Everyone knows who you are.”

Maisy studied the woman’s face, and found a sweet smile.

“You know, we are much more than a book club. We are part of a group called PEO, which is Philanthropic Education Organization. We raise money to give to women to continue their education. Books are just our reward and excuse to get together.”

“That’s wonderful,” Maisy said.

“When you’re free, why don’t you sit with us a while? Whenever she’s here, your mama always joins us at the end.”

“Okay, that would be nice.”

Maisy grabbed her coffee cup from Anne, checked the book club time slots and updated the RSVP list for the party. When she finished, she scanned the store; it needed help—aesthetic help. Some paint, a floor polish, new furniture, bookshelves that didn’t sag. She’d have to talk to Riley about it. In her mind she saw exactly what she could do to this place. It had good bones, but the wide plank floors were worn and chipped, the open beams dull and dusty, the furniture covered in horrid faded paisley and floral prints that reminded her of the formal living room in Mama’s house, which was probably where most of this stuff had come from.

Maisy sat outside the Blonde Book Club circle
.
They had, after all, invited her. They smiled at her, but continued their conversation about Kelly-Anne’s unnamed boyfriend. From the gist of the conversation, Maisy determined that Kelly-Anne wouldn’t offer his name, she was distraught because he told her he loved her, yet he stayed with his wife. Obviously this group of women was best friends.

Maisy made a cynical
huff
without realizing it.

“Excuse me?” Kelly-Anne turned to Maisy. “Did you say something?”

“No, sorry.”

Another woman leaned forward. “I know exactly what you’re going through. You want to tell yourself not to love a man who is unavailable—it is wrong and terrible and hurtful,
but
you just can
not
tell your heart what to feel and what
not
to feel.”

Kelly-Anne wiped at her eyes. “Exactly. It just sucks. I know I have to walk away from him. I am not this kind of woman.”

Another blonde exhaled, shook her head. “Doesn’t being in love with someone you can’t have just make you crazy?”

Kelly-Anne nodded. “Crazy.”

“I know.” A murmur of agreement went up around the circle. Betty held up the book they’d just read:
Wuthering Heights
. “I think Emily Brontë agrees. Love can make you crazy. Literally in this case.”

Maisy couldn’t resist. Riley had put her in charge of book clubs, so she’d step up to the job. “Okay,” she said, “what is the craziest thing you’ve ever done for love?”

Laughter filled the circle. Kelly-Anne went first. “Well, I had my brother remove the wheels on the car belonging to my lover’s wife so that when she went out the next morning, she found the car sitting on cinder blocks.”

Betty took a sharp inhale. “Oh, Kelly-Anne, that was so mean. It’s not her fault.”

Kelly-Anne dropped her head. “I know, I know. I felt desperate and weird all at the same time. I wouldn’t do it again. I didn’t steal the wheels. I just had to do something, anything to vent my frustration. It was so stupid and doesn’t even make any sense.”

Maisy nodded. “We all do the stupidest things for love.”

“I bet you’ve never done anything that stupid. Or dated a married man.”

Maisy laughed. “Oh, don’t be so sure.”

The conversation switched in an abrupt turn-around when Kiki clapped her hands. “Okay, who wants to call the library about the fund-raiser?”

“I will,” said a woman in a tank top and frayed jeans.

“Hey, everyone,” Riley called out. Maisy twisted her neck to stare at her sister, now showered and changed into a skirt and linen shirt. The women looked up at her as if blinking into the sunlight. “Just checking in on you.”

Kiki stood. “Hey, Riley. Where have you been hiding your sister? We just love her. . . .”

“Of course you do. Everyone does,” Riley said, her smile only half formed as Adalee came to her side. “This is my younger sister Adalee.”

Adalee nodded and pulled on Riley’s sleeve. “I need your help,” she whispered. “I don’t know where to start on this stupid project.”

Riley’s smile stayed in place. “I’ll leave you all to your discussion. I’m sure Maisy has it all under control.”