Driftwood Summer (21 page)

Mack came to her side. “Remember those simple pleasures?” Riley asked, pointing at the father and child.

He nodded. “That’s why I’m here. For those simple pleasures.” He looked over the beach. “The water, the smell of bait, the slow days.”

“That smell of bait would be me.” Riley laughed, shook her foot.

He tapped the bill of her baseball hat. “Who would you be without the sweet scent of fishing?”

Riley stared at him for a long moment. “Okay, you asked for a tour. Tell me where you want to go, what you want to do.” So close to him now, she saw the places he’d missed with the sun-block: a patch on his neck, a thin strip on his forearm, the susceptible places left exposed to the sun. She almost reached out and touched the reddened skin, but then withdrew her hand before she remembered her own lessons of life: not to mistake one’s own feelings of closeness for another’s.

“I want to go wherever you want to take me. I want to see Palmetto Beach as it is now, through Riley Sheffield’s eyes. Because if I look back, Palmetto Beach always has you in it.”

“Let’s go,” she said.

“Where to first?”

“Follow me.”

She walked back down the dock, looked over her shoulder at him. He took two long strides to catch up with her. His arm rubbed against hers. She smiled up at him and halted. “Bait shop, first stop.” She gestured to the door of the shack. “It is now owned by a man named Arthur Smack.”

Mack held up his hand. “What happened to old man Silvers?”

“He passed away years ago. Probably five or six.”

Mack stared off. “Wow.” He took a seat on a metal bench at the end of the pier, motioned for Riley to sit with him. “And all this time I imagined old man Silvers running the bait shop, just like always.”

“Yes,” she said.

“And look at you with a twelve-year-old son. Maisy in California. Adalee, who was like eight or nine years old the last time I saw her, now in college.”

Riley smiled, nodded.

“The last time I saw you was at the bonfire. We didn’t even get to . . . say goodbye.”

Riley flinched. “I don’t think you were too happy . . . with me.”

“What?”

“You know, Dad coming to get Maisy and all that.”

“Yeah, that was embarrassing. I figured I needed to hightail it out of there before the remainder of the armed forces showed up.” He laughed, shaking his head.

“That was . . . my fault,” Riley whispered, looked away.

Mack shrugged. “What was?”

“That Dad came and grabbed Maisy.”

“Riley, that was a long time ago. I felt bad that I never said goodbye to either of you. I did hear . . . that you came home from college. That must have been when you had Brayden.”

Riley watched a seagull peck at a French fry stuck between the wooden boards. She pushed her sunglasses against her nose as if they had slipped down, which they hadn’t, and she struggled to find something, anything to say. In her mind, Mack had represented something of innocence and sweetness, of a past that could never be lived again. If she had imagined seeing him at all, she had imagined him as he was then, not this man sitting next to her asking about her son.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That came out judgmental or something, didn’t it? I just wanted to . . .” He took his baseball hat off, and then put it back on again. “I just meant that I haven’t seen you since then and I didn’t even know . . .”

She took in his awkward gestures, his crooked grin. “Mack, it’s okay. I left college my first semester, when I found out I was carrying Brayden. I came home and after Mama and Daddy screamed about me behind closed doors, they came out with smiling faces and told me we would consider our options. And we did. Mama bought your old cottage and made her dream of owning a bookstore come true. Maybe she merely used me as an excuse, but I was more than willing to go along with the plan. So I moved in when Brayden was a few weeks old and I’ve been there ever since. So, yes, my illustrious college career lasted half a semester, but I had a four-oh when I left.” She laughed.

“Of course you did.” He touched her hand, and then quickly withdrew his.

She leaned into the bench back, beginning to feel some of the old camaraderie with him. “So I am sure that you had a more notable college career than I did. Tell me all about it.”

He shook his head. “It’s almost weird to me that you don’t know. It still feels like you should know everything.”

She shrugged. “Hey, it usually took us at least one day to catch up every summer—so let’s start now.”

“Every summer,” he said, and sighed. “What would I have done without you?”

“Caught less fish,” she said.

He laughed. “Okay, real life. I went to Brown undergrad. You already knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yup.”

“Afterward I got a degree in architecture from Syracuse. Harbinger Associates hired me right out of school.” He shrugged. “Sounds like a big deal, and it was since I still had to earn the job, but you know he and Dad have been friends since college.”

A group of teens walked past, laughing, passing a cigarette among them. “That’s it?” Riley asked. “Thirteen years and that’s it?”

He shook his head. “In a summary, yes. I guess. Doesn’t sound very exciting, does it?”

“You’ve left a lot out, Mack. Where do you live? Do you have a girlfriend? How’s Joe? How are your parents, really?”

He stood, held out his hand. “Come on, let’s walk and talk. I want to see the Beach Club, the jetty. I want to eat a cheeseburger at Archie’s and then have a red Icee that will stain my teeth and lips.”

“All worthy goals,” Riley said, and stood.

“I’ll start with Dad,” he said as she fell into stride next to him. “He was diagnosed with lymphoma two years ago. He’s had every treatment he can have, but it just keeps coming back. When we received the bookstore invitation, we knew we had to come.”

Riley stopped, her breath taken with the singular thought of Sheppard Logan sick, dying. “It’s so hard to wrap my head around the image of your dad sick. He’s always been such a rock.”

“He doesn’t have much longer, they say.”

His words slammed into her stomach. “Mack, don’t say that.”

“To you I can. I’ve always been able to say anything to you. It isn’t something we talk about. But it is true. And terrible.” He didn’t look at Riley when he answered, but continued to walk, staring straight ahead through his sunglasses. “So really, the bookstore party is just an excuse. We’re here to remember more happy times.” He stopped, lifted his sunglasses and looked at Riley. “If that is even possible, it is possible here. I want to see old friends. . . .”

She nodded, condolences gone into that place where words wouldn’t suffice, where there was nothing to say.

They began to walk again. She heard the long inhale before he continued. “So, here we are. As far as the other questions . . . Joe’s wife, Maggie, is pregnant, after trying for four years. I live in Manhattan in an apartment as big as my old closet in Boston. I have been dating a woman—Olivia—but am not quite sure if I will be when I get back. Things weren’t going very . . . well, and she was none too happy that I left for a couple weeks. We both work at Harbinger. . . .”

As the afternoon passed, their first awkward steps together after so many years apart became the smoother dance of an old friendship. After they’d downed cheeseburgers and red Icees, they’d reached the back entrance of the bookstore. Riley stopped on the bottom porch step. “I really have to get back to work. I’m so happy you came for all these celebrations, but it means that I am insanely busy.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m glad I got some time with you. After the bookstore event tonight, I’ll take Dad back to rest and then I’m going to an oyster roast with the Murphy brothers.”

“Well, that should be interesting.” Riley laughed. “Trust me, they aren’t much different all these years later.”

“Which means one of us will end up being thrown in the river. Worst-case scenario—it’s me.”

They hugged goodbye and she touched the sunburned place on his forearm. “I’m sorry about your dad and all you’re going through.”

He placed his hand on top of hers and smiled. “I’ll see you tonight.” With a wave he walked away.

Riley entered the bookstore, where Ethel told her that Adalee and Maisy had gone on some secret surprise errand that had something to do with fleas. Riley ran upstairs, stared at her flushed face in the mirror and took a deep breath before she returned to work. She reminded herself to never, ever believe that a man wanted more than friendship; it only led to heartache and betrayal. O
nly
friendship. He’d already said it:
I am here to see old friends. . . .

FIFTEEN

MAISY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maisy and Adalee walked down the aisles of the Antique Mart, the air pungent with dust, mildew and furniture polish. Now that they were alone together, doing something they loved, the natural bond of sisterhood returned, each step they took between old dining tables and whitewashed dressers erasing the years Maisy had been gone. Their laughter rose in excitement; their exchanges speeded up with each lacy doily they picked up, with each scrap of chenille or damask they held.

Adalee checked her cell phone every five minutes until Maisy told her to put it away. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Adalee asked. “I mean, really. It’s normal to want to talk to your boyfriend.”

Maisy picked up a silver teapot. “This is beautiful.”

“You don’t like tea. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I like tea now, and I don’t want to answer your question.” Maisy placed the pot back on the table.

“Come on, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about Chad. Tell me about your guys. I bet you’re dating more than one.” Adalee bent down to look at the price on a pink-washed side table. “When I was little, I used to think that when I grew up, I’d be as pretty as you. But it never happened. I always thought that one day I’d get all the guys like you do.” Adalee straightened up. “Oh, well.”

“But you
are
beautiful.” Maisy put her hand on Adalee’s shoulders. “You always were.”

Adalee shrugged. “Not like you.”

“Well, it’s not like I have any great luck with men.”

“Really?”

Maisy nodded. “I haven’t found the one yet, so don’t be wishing you looked like me or were me. You have so much ahead of you.” She grinned and leaned toward Adalee. “But I do have another lesson for you—don’t love someone who is impossible to have. That seems to be what I’m good at—loving the ones who aren’t available.” She attempted a laugh and walked away from Adalee, toward the far end of the aisle. She looked over her shoulder. “Come on, they’re unloading a huge pile of pine furniture back here.”

Together they sorted through furniture, fabrics, lamps and knickknacks, commenting on how they would use each item. Adalee finally sat on an unpainted chair. Maisy lifted a folded piece of cream overwashed linen. “Look at this. Feel how soft it is.” She held out the material.

“You know, I can’t figure out what is wrong with Riley.” Adalee rubbed the fabric between her fingers. “She’s acting like she has to protect Mama from everything. Like Mama is frail and naive. We all know Mama could run the store or the world, even from her bed.”

“Riley has her whole life invested in that place. It just feels like Mama and she are so wrapped up in it, all that matters to them is the store.” Maisy stared off toward the back loading dock. “I have an idea.”

“What?”

“Let’s surprise them. . . .”

Adalee grinned back at her sister. “Like it’s our bedrooms years ago.”

“Exactly.” Maisy lifted the bolt of soft linen, handed it to Adalee and then yanked her cell phone from her purse. “I can get Beach Chic to overnight us some slipcovers. You negotiate for this bolt of linen—you’re better at that than me.”

The afternoon passed with Maisy engaged in her favorite activity: foraging for finds in the bins and tables of flea-market objects. Her head filled with ideas and images. Peter’s call halfway through the excursion was not enough to make her stop and talk. It wasn’t until Riley’s text reminder came through that Maisy remembered she was due back for the Book Club Celebration.

Covered in dust and dirt, she and Adalee stuffed their finds in the back of Mama’s pickup truck and drove too fast back to Palmetto Beach. They ran through the front door of the bookstore, laughing.

Riley stood at the cash register, waved at them over the crowd, which was double what it had been the night before for Nick Martin. “Look at all these people!” Maisy said.

Together they worked their way to Riley’s side. “Glad you could make it,” she said. “You look . . . great?” She raised her eyebrows, taking in their disheveled appearance.

“Sorry,” Adalee said. “We lost track of time.”

Riley brushed dirt from Adalee’s face, tucked hair behind her ear. “Will you please set up the table for the name tags? I have them ready by the front door. As the women come through the line, write each one’s name and then the name of their book club underneath.”

“Aren’t you exhausted?” Adalee blew a piece of hair off her forehead.

“Tomorrow is a half day—can’t open until after church—we can all rest up for Cookbook Club. They use the café kitchen here every Sunday afternoon to prepare recipes from the cookbook they picked that month. This time we’ve invited the public to come and watch. . . . We sold tickets for dinner.”

“What a cute idea. I didn’t know we had that book club, too. You think of everything.”

“It was Mama’s idea,” Riley said, and turned to Maisy. “Will you please announce that the trivia game will start in twenty minutes? Here are the questions. The book clubs are divided up in those chair groupings.” Riley pointed at the round circles of chairs.