Driftwood Summer (24 page)

Mack released her, dove under the water and swam toward shore. She watched in awe as water sluiced off his body. He stopped, stood waist-deep and waited for her to catch up.

Together they waded back to shore. He shook his head, salt water spraying over her. She inhaled his scent and then smiled at him, hoping that he could hear her unspoken words of desire. “Can I see you later?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Do you have to go somewhere now?”

She nodded. “I have to help the Cookbook Club cook something, but the truth is, the last thing I made was macaroni and cheese from a box.”

“Just smile and they won’t even notice you can’t cook,” Mack said, and walked toward their shirts and towels.

A child’s voice echoing across the water reached them. “Mr. Mack . . . hey, hey, over here.”

Mack and Maisy turned together to see Brayden jumping up and down on the beach.

“Hey, Brayden,” Mack called, backed a few feet away from Maisy.

Brayden ran up to them. “Hey, Aunt Maisy, what’s up?”

“Not much, buddy. What’s up with you?”

“Just finished a boring meeting with Gamma and Mom and Adalee. How come you got out of it?”

“I had my interrogation this morning.” Maisy slipped her shirt back on over her bathing suit, buttoned it.

Brayden turned his attention to Mack. “Okay, your turn. Let’s see if you can really catch more redfish off the jetty than off Pearson’s Pier. I’m telling you, you can’t. Maybe in the old days, but not now.”

“Who you calling old?”

“You . . .” Brayden ran off, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll get the poles. Meet you at the jetty.”

Mack smiled at Maisy. “Guess I’m going fishing. I promised Dad, too.”

“Yeah, and I gotta . . .” She motioned toward the house.

“God, it’s great to be here.” Mack headed off, and Maisy turned toward the cottage, hoping no one could see the big, goofy smile on her face.

EIGHTEEN

RILEY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thesunwarmed Riley’s shoulders, the afternoon hazy with languid humidity as she relaxed, knowing that Maisy was preparing for the Cookbook Club. She’d walked to the jetty pier to meet Brayden and bring him home before the public arrived for the cooking demonstration. Next to her on the pier stood Mack, Brayden and Sheppard, their fishing poles appendages that hung over the slapping waves. The men continued their bets about the best place to fish.

Mack hollered toward Brayden. “Take a couple steps back, buddy. Your mom will kill me if you fall in.”

Sheppard flung his line to the right, toward the marsh area. His fishing hat hung loose on his head, his thinner hair poking out underneath the rim. Mack leaned toward Riley. “He’s had that hat since I can remember. Even the stains have stories. Every lure is the one that got away. I don’t have a summer memory of him that doesn’t include that hat.”

Riley smiled, laid her hand on top of Mack’s resting on the warm wooden railing. The sun seemed to hum as it pressed down on them, spreading lassitude and warmth. A sad thought crossed Riley’s mind—what would Mack do with that hat when his father was gone? What did one do with the most important memories held in material possessions? Display them? Bury them?

Riley turned away from Mack’s frail father, away from her morbid thoughts, and watched Brayden reel in his line to show them a tangle of marsh grass. Mack hollered, “Told you this wasn’t near as good a place to fish.”

Then Sheppard let out a shout. “I got me a big one here.”

Brayden dropped his pole on the dock, ran over to Sheppard’s side. Holding up his pole, Sheppard smiled. “Ta-da.” A large redfish dangled on the end of the line, sunlight glinting off the silvered scales.

Together they unhooked the fish. Sheppard was holding it over the water to release it when Brayden placed his hand on the old man’s arm. “My mom is a really good cook. She can fry that thing up for you in about a second.”

Mack laughed. “And I bet she can clean it faster than anyone you know.”

Brayden nodded. “Except me. I can do it faster.”

Riley leaned against the rail and shook her head. “Go ahead and release the fish, Mr. Sheppard. There is no way I’m going to have time to fry that up tonight.”

Another hour passed in quiet companionship before Mack put his pole down and sat with Riley on the wooden bench attached to the railing. “Is it like this when you live here?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you at peace like this all the time? Like now? Or is it only this way if you visit. . . . At this moment, I feel no need to contact the outside world. It doesn’t exist anymore.”

Riley shrugged. “I’m not sure about the peaceful part. I do have to work and face all those other problems that can make life hard. But yes, sometimes I feel that the outside world doesn’t really exist. It’s hard for me to picture you in New York or Boston or anywhere but on the end of a Lowcountry dock.”

“Maybe because that’s where I belong.”

An older couple—hand in hand—walked slowly down the dock. The woman leaned her head against the shoulder of the taller man, who carried a parcel or box of some sort. As they drew closer, Riley recognized them—Mr. and Mrs. Rutledge, Sheldon’s parents. A whisper passed her lips. “The Rutledge family,” she said.

Mack waved at them, but the couple stared past him and Riley, almost through them. It wasn’t until the couple reached the end of the dock that their faces flickered with recognition. Mrs. Rutledge formed her mouth into a round O of surprise, and said their names. Riley realized that Mrs. Rutledge was crying, her eyes swollen and full of tears.

Sheppard placed his pole in a round brass holder and shook Mr. Rutledge’s hand, offered greetings, and then gave Mrs. Rutledge a hug. Brayden turned toward them, but didn’t come closer.

Mrs. Rutledge hugged Mack. “I am so sorry I didn’t recognize you for a minute. This is a hard day for us.”

Mack looked at his father, who spoke to him in soft words. “I heard yesterday and meant to tell you this morning. Sheldon was . . .”

Mr. Rutledge finished Sheppard’s sentence. “Sheldon died with honor for our country on a mission in Iraq. It’s been months, but we wanted to bring . . . bring him here.”

Riley backed away, grabbed Brayden’s arm, heard the ensuing conversation as though she were a bug trapped in a Mason jar, the sounds muffled.

Mack spoke to the older couple. “I am so sorry. I have so many wonderful memories of Sheldon. He was one of a kind, a true gentle and yet tough spirit.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Rutledge said. “This was his favorite place in the world. And you were one of his favorite friends from those beach days. I know he regrets . . . regretted not keeping in better touch.”

“Me, too,” Mack said, and bowed his head to stare at the dock.

Mr. Rutledge spoke with a tremor in his voice. “We are here to toss his ashes into the sea. It is what he wanted. It is what he asked for. Our only son.”

Sheppard placed his hand on Mr. Rutledge’s shoulder.

Brayden looked up at Riley. “Mom, you’re hurting me.”

She realized she was squeezing his arm so hard that the impression of her fingers remained when she jerked her hand away. Mack came to their side.

“What’s going on?” Brayden asked him. His eyes were wide and his gaze flickered from Sheppard to the Rutledges and back to Mack.

Mack bent so that he was eye to eye with Brayden. “This sweet couple are old friends of ours and they are here to say goodbye to their son. Do you want to run down to the ice-cream shack and we’ll join you in a few minutes?”

Brayden reeled in his line and leaned toward Mack. “How are they going to say goodbye if he’s not here?”

Mack looked to Riley with a question on his face. She understood she needed to answer her son, yet the words were locked inside her.

Mack explained. “Their son died in Iraq. That box contains his ashes.”

“Oh.” Brayden nodded.

Mack’s hand went to the small of Riley’s back; she swayed beneath him, her eyes closed. He grabbed her with both arms, and she fell into him, her face against his chest, her arms limp at his side. “Oh . . . It can’t be.”

“I know,” he whispered into her hair. “It’s terrible.”

Riley’s body shook; her breathing became shallow. “Are you okay?” Mack asked, lifted her chin.

“I don’t know. . . . I can’t . . .”

“Mom?” Brayden’s voice seemed to contain a multitude of questions.

Riley didn’t answer or look up, just buried her face in Mack’s chest. She felt his hand in her hair. “Riley?”

She lifted her face. Mack’s voice was like a jackhammer to the glass jar surrounding her; shards of slivered glass seemed to fly through the air in brilliance; she saw Brayden in the light. He shifted his baseball cap on his head, twisted his feet on the dock as if trying to decide which way to turn in this uncertain world in which his mother wouldn’t answer him.

Riley stepped away from Mack and straightened to her full height, finding a new strength in her guilty heart. She looked directly at Brayden. “This couple is here to say goodbye to their son. We will stay and add a prayer for his soul.”

Mack lifted his eyebrows in question. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said.

Together the three of them joined Sheppard and the Rutledges. Riley hugged Mrs. Rutledge, then her husband. “I am so sorry about Sheldon. He was an amazing boy. I have so many great memories of him.”

“Thank you, dear. He spoke very fondly of you also.”

Riley held her hand out for her son. Brayden stepped to her side and she placed her arm over his shoulders. “This is my son, Brayden Sheffield. If you don’t mind, we would like to stay and help you say goodbye to Sheldon.” With each word Riley felt something in her world shift, as if broken pieces of reality were trying to come together but didn’t quite fit.

Mr. Rutledge sat down on a bench to look Brayden in the eyes. “Son, do you understand what we are doing?”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“My son died for our country, and we are here to honor him. Are you sure you want to stay?”

Brayden nodded, his eyes wide. Mrs. Rutledge looked at them all. “This is a small miracle. We thought we would be saying goodbye to him alone and now . . . look, you’re here. More people who loved him.”

“Everyone who knew Sheldon loved him,” Mack said.

“Yes.” Mr. Rutledge stood, Mrs. Rutledge at his side. Mack placed his hand in Riley’s and together with Brayden and Sheppard they walked to the end of the dock with Sheldon Rutledge’s mourning parents.

 

Late-afternoon light shimmered across the walls of Riley’s bedroom. A breeze from the open window lifted the sheer curtains, creating uneven shadow patterns across the hardwood floors. Riley’s body still shook with a fever of grief and guilt. She wrapped a quilt around her legs, curled into a ball on her bed.

Images without words tumbled through her mind: Sheldon laughing in front of a bonfire; Sheldon above her telling her how beautiful she was and how he’d wanted her since the first time he saw her punch Lilly-Mae for bullying a little boy; Brayden’s face and eyes as Sheldon’s ashes flowed across the air and into the waters off Palmetto Beach.

She longed to tell everyone and yet no one that Brayden’s father had just been honored at the end of a jetty pier. She craved to cry and yet feel nothing at all.

She ignored the soft knock on her door, and then Maisy entered without permission. “Riley? Are you okay?” Her voice was soft.

Maisy’s footsteps stopped next to Riley’s bed, but she didn’t open her eyes. Maisy’s hand came to rest upon her forehead. “You’re sick.” Riley nodded without otherwise answering. “You’ve been working too hard . . . too long.” The bed tilted under Maisy’s weight. Riley curled tighter into herself.

“Maisy, did you know that Sheldon Rutledge died in Iraq months ago? Plane crash.”

“God, no. That’s awful. Is that what’s wrong with you?”

In full protection of her secret, Riley sat up. “No. Listen, I’ll get Brayden dinner after the Cookbook Club is done. They’re coming now.” She needed to find the strength to feed her son, check on the bookstore—all the responsibilities that made her get up each morning. This was not the time for self-pity, for regret and selfish tears. She’d made her choices and she’d live with them. She’d decided to keep her secret about Brayden, and a promise to herself was the same as to any other—you didn’t break it just because it didn’t feel good anymore.

Use your logic
, her mind screamed. This afternoon, this death, was a reminder to keep her head on straight and move forward. Romantic notions of Mack Logan were a silly waste of time. She felt like an idiot for even letting the prickling warmth of desire return.

A breeze floated into the room. Riley forced a smile. “I’m fine, Maisy. Go on and enjoy your evening. I’ll finish with the Cookbook Club. You go . . . on now.”

“You sound really weird, Riley. I think you need some sleep or something. Why don’t you spend the night with Mama? Adalee and I will take care of everything here. Brayden has been promising to play Monopoly with me—every time I try to nail him down, he’s running off to the pier. Let me help you with him.”

Riley wished with a sudden and fervent desire that Maisy was the kind of sister she could confide in—the kind of sister who would understand her guilt and grief and offer comfort in return. The kind of sister she used to be.

Riley got out of bed and stood straight and firm. “That is sweet of you, Maisy. Yes, you take over the Cookbook Club, but I’ll bring Brayden to Mama’s. He likes playing with the boy who lives next door.”

Yes, it was a good idea for her to spend the night with Mama. She’d be back in the morning—first thing. Riley gathered an overnight bag, rounded up her son and drove to her mother’s house.